Book 1: The White Lady of Rohan
by Soledad
Summary: 1st Boromir story. About Boromir's way to Imladris. Now all beta-read and Completed.
1. Prologue: Fall Before Temptation

THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN

by Soledad

Disclaimer:

None of these wonderful characters belong to me. They belong to JRR Tolkien and him alone. I'm just borrowing them, because it is a great honour - and great fun - to play with them a little. I've been an avid Tolkien fan for at least twenty years (which shows how old I have already become, without noticing it), and simply want to share my pleasure about his creation with other people.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Originally, this used to be the second story of my Boromir-storyline, called ''Fall Before Temptation''. For some reason I cannot understand myself, I decided to make it a flashback story, in order to explain some hints in ''Forgotten Song'', which was meant to be the first one. After some thought, I realized how distracting this might be and decided to swap the two stories, adjusting the timeline to become linear. Also after some time the need arose to write more about Boromir's long and perilous journey between Minas Tirith and Rivendell, so I decided to add more chapters and make ''The White Lady'' a rather lengthy tale. 

And when I was restructuring already, I decided to add the introductional chapter to this storyline. It was originally written for my own website, but hopefully a slightly modified version will help you to see the bigger picture. 

I listed here all the individual tales of the Boromir-storyline, with added summaries, so that if someone wants to take a look at the later ones, they know what to await. Only Chapter 1 of ''Forgotten Song'' is as yet beta-ed, so be patient with me, please!

INTRODUCTION: FALL BEFORE TEMPTATION

Welcome to Boromir's adventures from the day he left Minas Tirith until his death at the Fall of Rauros. This is a series of missing scenes, happening during the small time periods Tolkien didn't tell us much about.

The series starts with his arrival in Rivendell, has a flashback in Part 2 while he visited Edoras on his way to Rivendell, and continues in Rivendell again, through Elrond's council, which I have postponed about a month to make my whole story work.

Further parts will show the way of the Fellowship upon Caradhras, through Moria and Lórien, and the series will finally end with Boromir's inevitable death at Sarn Gebir. Yes. He is my hero and he will die. I am very sorry for him, too, but this is not an AU fic, and I will follow the books' canon as scrupulously as possible. There will be, however, a whole series of ''missing scenes'' that are completely the result of my own musings. And I have adopted a few movie scenes, too, where it served my goals in character development.

There won't be many original characters from my side. I seriously doubt that I could create anything that would match Tolkien's creations. I also tried to go with the canon (mostly the books, but occasionally the movie, too), as far as it was possible while keeping my own story working. Sometimes I had to go a little astray, though. But this is not an AU, only a little supplement to the original. Don't await big surprises plot-wise - not in this series, anyway.

I haven't used any Elven speech, either (so far). Writing in English is a challenge great enough for me, it being my third language, even without messing around with Quenya or Sindarin. I only write in English because I do it in all fandoms I've ever watched in OT. Usually, only stories in my own universes are written in Hungarian or German. The poems that may pop up in this series are taken form the Great Maker, JRR Tolkien, himself. On some places you might find somewhat transformed quotes from the books, concerning events I adopted from the originals. It isn't simply laziness but my dedication to follow Tolkien's steps as close as possible. But I didn't try to write Tolkien-like. My English is simply not good enough for that. For sounding a bit more old-fashioned, I decided to avoid contractions, though. If you find one, it has been a mistake on my part and I'd like to be informed about it, since it would be breaking the style.

I want to sincerely thank Dwimordene, whose sad and beautiful story ''From the Other River Bank'' inspired me to write this series.

And just a last word to the title: I named the series so because - in my stories and opinion - Boromir had considered himself fallen because of his forbidden and unfulfilled love, even before he got under the Spell of the Ring.

Now to the stories:

1. The White Lady of Rohan

Flasback story about Boromir travelling through Rohan and meeting Éowyn. Continued with some chapters about his jurney up to Tharbad. Complete now.

2. Forgotten Song

After almost four months of fruitless searching for Rivendell, Boromir meets a small company of Wood-Elves, lead by the Prince of Mirkwood, who show him the right way. Complete now, with added chapters in Imladris and one featuring Denethor in Minas Tirith.

3. Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love

While in Imladris, Boromir befriends Aragorn and discovers the true nature of Elrond and Legolas' relationship. He also becomes part of the riddle revealed and meets some interesting people. Complete now.

4. The Bitter Gift of Compassion

Boromir is not happy about Elven secrecy. Legolas suggests Strider to do something about it. But then, someone else comes along and takes things in his own hands.(Warning: m/m interaction in this one!) Chapters 3 and 4 only available on my own website. Complete now.

A Heart For Falsehood Framed Part

Learning about Aragorn's true identity, Boromir's feelings towards about everyone in Rivendell turn into downright hostility. (I went a bit movie-verse in this one because of the meaningful words that were spoken on the Council. Namely that Gondor doesn't have, nor needs, a King.) Also, Boromir gets proof about Aragorn's heritage. The Council tries to decide what to do with the Ring. Finally, the Ring-bearer is chosen and Elrohir has an earnest word with Boromir. How can the Son of Denethor make things well again?

Originally, this was a three-parter (before I've figured out the chaptering system). Afterwards I've put it together again, to one multi-chaptered story, for continuity's sake. Finished, but will need some serious re-writing in the one or other part.

Of Snow and Stone and Wolves

Elladan makes his choice. The Company of the Ring sets out and gets defeated by the Caradhras. My, is this a long one! But finished, nevertheless! Complete now.

Descending to Darkness

The journey through the Mines of Moria. (To be written.)

Kortirion Under the Trees (working title - will most likely be changed)

In Lothlórien, we finally learn the meaning of the Forgotten Song for the Wood-Elves. (To be written.)

Fall After Temptation

Boromir falls under the spell of the Ring and dies, protecting Merry and Pippin. (Also a bit movie-verse, because of the wonderful reconciliation scene between him and Aragonr.) Also not written yet.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

As you can se, I've planned out this series for quite some time, but I still can't tell you when it will be finished. As for my other storylines, the Glorfindel-story (A Tale of Never-Ending Love) starts during ''Of Snow and Stone and Wolves'', my Elladan-story ''Hope, Born of Darkness'' and the Éowyn-storyline follow immediately the end of this series (only two parts of it are already done and I'm still not very happy with them), while the others, concerning Elves mostly, are more or less stand-alone stories, with small hints to this storyline hidden all along them.

Enough said, I think. Go on and enjoy, if you like!

Soledad


	2. Chapter 1: Meduseld

THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Aud of the deep eyes, Théodred's wife and Imogen, Elfhelm's wife are mine.

Rating: PG-13 for implied m/m context.

Author's notes:

I've been planning to write an Éowyn story ever since I read the books at the first time some twenty-odd years ago. (Yes, I am actually that old!) Back then, I had an idea to a Faramir-Éowyn romance, but it never worked, mostly because I couldn't understand how she transferred her attraction for Aragorn into love for Faramir so quickly.

Then somewhere, not so long ago, I read the idea that she might have a love affair with Boromir. I couldn't quite accept that idea either, but I found the thought that she might have known Boromir interesting.

Then I came upon Dwimordene's excellent story, ''From the Other River Bank'', where it is mentioned that the Lord Denethor wanted Boromir to marry Éowyn, thus ensuring the loyalty of Rohan. When I started writing my Boromir-storyline it seemed a good opportunity to consider, how Éowyn might have reacted to such a proposal.

I quote the description of Meduseld almost word-to-word from ''The Two Towers'' – first to create an authentic feeling by the launch of my story, second, because I follow the books, and who else than the Great Maker himself could know better what the Golden Hall looks like?

The same is true for the Rohirrim themselves. Basically, I took the part with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf visiting Edoras and re-wrote it, inserting Boromir and his story into it. So be not surprised when something appears strangely familiar to you. It is meant to be.

There won't be any speech in the tongue of the Rohirrim (or Old English, actually). Sorry, folks, the challenge to write a proper English is hard enough, even without messing it up with other languages.

As several of my other tales, this one started as a one-shot. I wrote it rather hurriedly, and had been unhappy with its abrupt ending for quite some time. Now, that I have finished re-writing the next parts of this storyline, I couldn't avoid to fix the beginning any longer.

Long have I hesitated to touch this particular story, mostly out of fear that I would destroy its coherence whenI begin meddling with it. Actually, Chapters One and Two are almost identical with the original version; I only changed a few words here or a couple of lines there. But I decided to add a third chapter, in order to give Théodred a bigger part and to introduce his wife, who is only referred to in ''Ice Blossom'', but is an interesting enough character to get a cameo.

Also, there will be a fourth, a fifth and a sixth chapter, eventually, focussing on the other significant moments of Boromir's long journey: receiving Éwyn's token, the meeting with a nameless Ranger who explains him how to find Imladris, and his skirmish with a band of Orcs during which he loses his horse and has to continue his journey on foot. I felt the latter moments very important, and decided that I can handle them in two additional chapters in this tale, instead of writing a prequel.

Théodred's wife, Aud of the deep eyes, is my creation. She is borrowed from an old Viking legend about the similarly-named, remarkably strong-willed wife of a chieftain who followed her husband to death in the same manner. Considering the fact that Théodred was 13 years older than Éomer (which is thus stated in the Unfinished Tales), I found it highly unlikely that he would have been unmarried, especially that he was Théoden's only child. So I gave him a wife and made her the daughter of Erkenbrand, Master of Westfold and Lord of the Hornburg – and a shieldmaiden, too, for I needed a deeper bound between her and Éowyn. In order to avoid any kintwist later, however, I made the Crown Prince of Rohan and his wife childless. The final fate of Aud is told in ''Ice Blossom''.

Imogen Ragnarsdóttir, the wife of Elfhelm, is a fully-developed character from my own fantasy universe, where she had a very similar fate. Though a sideline character only, I've grown very fond of her, so I borrowed her from myself, for I thought she would match Éowyn wonderfully. I'll try not to sue myself. She is only mentioned here, but she'll play a more significant role in the first part of my Éowyn-storyline, ''Frozen Flower''. And in Elfhelms as-yet unvritten adventure, ''Emissary of the Mark''.

Many heartfelt thanks to Danielle for beta-reading the story (minus these notes that I forgot to send her g).

So, now that all important things are said, on with the story.

**CHAPTER ONE: MEDUSELD**

It was the 10th of July - almost a week since he left Minas Tirith, haunted by his father's cold rage and his own guilty feelings. The day before he had ridden on through sunset and slow dusk and gathering night. When he at last dismounted for a few short hours of rest, he felt stiff and weary, and sleep seemed to flee him. So he just lay in the deep, soundless night, under the cold moon, until the stiffness in his limbs eased a little and his horse was rested. Then he rose again and set forth on his journey. 

On the eve of the eighth day he finally reached the outskirts of Edoras, seat of the Rohirric rulers. He planned to take his first somewhat longer rest in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, where Théoden son of Thengel, King of the Mark, dwelt. This was not the first time he had visited the Riddermark, having come here on different errands from the Lord Denethor, his father, but the magnificent beauty of the city still filled his heart with awe, chasing away his gloomy thoughts for a while. 

So very different it was from the seven stone rings of Minas Tirith, so open, unrestrained and free, that he felt like a caged bird set free again when he took in the majestic sight unfolding before his very eyes. 

He halted his tired horse and looked forward, where the grasslands rolled against the hills that clustered at his feet and flowed up into many valleys already dim and dark, untouched by the light of the setting sun, winding their way into the heart of the great mountains. 

He chose the widest of the glens that opened like a long gulf among the hills and followed it. Far inward he glimpsed a tumbled mountain-mass with one tall peak. About its feet there flowed, as a thread of silver, the stream that issued from the dale. It ran down swiftly into the plain, and beyond the feet of the hills turned across his path in a wide bend, flowing away east to feed the Entwash far off in its reed-choked beds. 

Over the streem there was a ford between low banks much trampled by the passage of horses. Boromir passed over and came upon a wide rutted track leading towards the uplands. And there it was that he ran into the Horse-lords for the first time since he had passed the Mering-streem. 

It was a small company of two dozen mail-clad men, but the simple fact that Rohan felt the need to guard the ford - for the first time in at least a century - showed how perilous the ways had grown in recent times. 

Boromir had always loved the Riders of Rohan - their bravery, their fierce love of freedom, their unshakable loyalty, their skill with weapons and horses, their high spirits. Every time he was sent to the Mark, he thoroughly enjoyed talking and singing and drinking with them, listening to their rich and slowly rolling language (which he learned surprisingly quickly, though not the better in lore of Denethor's sons), their fierce and powerful songs. It made him feel much younger, just to be in their company. 

And their horses! The heart of every true warrior would swell at the sight of those magnificent creatures! Great they were of stature, strong and clean-limbed; their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. 

More than anything in his youth Boromir wanted to ride such a wonderful steed, but the horses of Rohan could not survive in the enclosed, stone stables of Minas Tirith, nor would he have such free spirits jailed among lesser beings. 

The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms and streamed in long braids behind them, their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields, white and green, were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees. 

With astonishing speed and skill they checked their steeds, wheeled and came charging around. Soon Boromir found himself in a ring of horsemen moving in a running circle, up the hill-slope behind him and down, round and round him, drawing ever inwards. It was a customary tactic of the Rohirrim, distracting and frightening to enemies - moreso the foot-travelling Orcs of smaller stature - but Boromir knew it well already (at times he had even used such tactics) and did not even flinch. 

Without a word or cry, suddenly the Riders halted. A thicket of spears were pointed towards Boromir who held back his frightened horse with an iron grip; and some of the horsemen had bows in hand, and their arrows were already fitted to the string. 

Then laughter was heard, deep and pleasant, from behind the line of the Riders, and one of them rode forward - a tall man, taller than the rest and strong and handsome; from his helm as a crest a white horsetail flowed, as was the custom for all the Marshals of the Mark, but his was framed in a tiny golden crown on top of his helm. 

For the Rider was no less than Théodred son of Théoden, Crown Prince and Second Marshal of the Mark. 

''Hail Boromir, Heir of Gondor!'' he greeted the traveller in a friendly manner, for no strangers they were to each other, though few and short their meetings had been in the past. 

Still, quickly had they found a kindred spirit in each other, bound by the same duties and burdened by the same responsibilities, albeit the Lord Denethor was not called a King. They were even near the same age, Théodred being born a mere two months earlier than Boromir.(1) 

The Prince of Rohan signaled his men to lower their weapons and clasped forearms with his rarely-seen friend in the manner of warriors. 

''Welcome to the Mark, my friend, it comforts my heart to see you safe and sound. Dire news has been coming from the South lately, and I have worried about your fate.'' 

''Great is our need, indeed, for the strength of Gondor weakens with every new assault,'' Boromir answered gravely. ''But it seems that Rohan has been threatened, too, if you feel the need to guard the ford of Edoras. Do the Orcs dare to intrude this deeply into the Mark?'' 

Théodred glanced at his men uncomfortably and lowered his voice. 

''No, not the Orcs... no more than other times, at least. To tell the truth, my main concern at the moment is not Mordor that is far but Isengard that is close.'' 

''Isengard?'' Boromir frowned. ''Has Saruman the White turned against his allies? Surely we would have heard about that?''

''He has not turned against us, not openly at least, not yet,'' the Prince of Rohan replied glumly. ''But something is going on in Isengard, something that is not right. There are Orc-packs all over the Mark, we can hardly catch up with them and our forces are already spread too thin,'' he lowered his voice even more, almost to a whisper. ''But what I fear most, and my cousin Éomer agrees with me, is a league between Orthanc and the Dark Tower. Should that come to pass, Rohan would be caught between two fires, both much too strong for us to extinguish.'' 

Boromir shook his head in shocked disbelief. ''Could that really happen?'' 

''I do not know,'' Théodred sighed, ''but the omens are not good. Had your brother not come to Éomer's aid several times recently, we would have lost the only other male offspring of Éorl's House with all the men of his own household. Hard it is to fight a wizard, moreso one as powerful as Saruman. His evil birds are always in the skies, spying, watching. Black smoke is rising from the mines below Isengard and who knows what evil things he is breeding in them? Were it not for the strength of Gondor, failing though it may be, I would fear that the fate of the Mark was sealed.'' 

''And yet the King of the Mark hesitates to take the Steward's advice in matters of war,'' Boromir said, remembering the last council in Minas Tirith that had accidentally revealed his brother's dealings with Éomer of Rohan and raised the wrath of the Steward towards his younger son once again. 

A great sadness clouded the handsome face of the Prince of Rohan; his ice-blue eyes darkened and became almost grey with pain. 

''My father is not the man he used to be,'' he answered sadly, ''not any more. Age seems to lie heavily on his shoulders nowadays, though he is many years younger than the Steward of Gondor. But there are those who whisper soft words of doom to him in the darkness of his halls, and he falls more and more under their spell. Were it not for Éowyn to watch over him, I would not dare to leave him behind even for a day.'' 

The name of Éowyn, whom his father wanted him to wed, made Boromir's heart ache again. He longed to know whether the Steward had made his proposal already, yet the time was not proper for such questions - nor could he be sure that Théodred would know of it at all. Still, the news of the weakened state of Théoden was disturbing, even if it explained much of Rohan's strange politics lately. 

''These are dire tidings, indeed,'' he said. ''Do you believe that I would still be welcome in your father's halls? For a long and tiresome journey lies before me, and I hoped to take a well-deserved rest in Meduseld ere I continue towards the North.'' 

''Those that come from Mundburg are always welcome in Meduseld,'' Théodred smiled. ''And many of us, including myself, will be glad to have you in our midst again, even if it is only for a short while. For more like the swift sons of Éorl than to the grave Men of Gondor you seem to us, and we are proud to call you our friend. Éomer will be devastated when he hears that you came to Edoras while he was away - he always admired you. Come now. I will escort you to Meduseld myself.'' 

He instructed his second, a middle-aged, scar-faced man, to take command of the guard company and rode forward. Boromir accompanied him, relieved to be in the company of someone who never showed anything but honest friendship towards him. It was too rare for him to spend time with someone who did not demand aught from him - who simply liked him. Sometimes he thought the Prince of Rohan and his young cousin, Éomer, were the only people who did like him for the person he was, not for the power he would wield. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

At the foot of the walled hill their way ran under the shadow of many mounds, high and green. Upon their western sides the grass was white as with a drifted snow: small flowers sprang like countless stars amid the turf, and Boromir bowed his head respectfully, for he knew that those were the resting places of the former Kings of the Mark. How much more gentle and natural they seemed than the tombs of the Stewards long gone on the Rath Dínen, dark and damp and cold like prisons, enclosed in dead stone... 

''Look!'' said Théodred, and his eyes became strangely thoughtful. ''How fair they are, the bright eyes of simbelmynë in the grass! Comforting is their brightness to my heart, for they blossom in all seasons of the year where dead men rest; and even when I am gathered to these same barrows where all my sires sleep, I will be remembered by them, forever.'' 

''Seven mounds upon the left, and nine upon the right,'' Boromir murmured, counting them. ''Many long lives of Men it is since the Golden Hall was built.'' 

''Five hundred summers have come and gone since then,'' Théoden nodded thoughtfully, ''which is but a little while in the eyes of the Men of Westernesse, I guess, for you measure your history in thousands of years rather than in hundreds. But to us, who are such a young folk, it seems so long ago that the raising of this house is but a memory of song, and the years before are lost in the mist of time.'' 

''And a good thing that is, believe me, my friend,'' Boromir said. ''A young folk you called your people, and justly so, for young you are, indeed, young and powerful and of high spirits; but my people dwell in the past, mourning over lost battles and lost honour and lost glory. The bitter fight against the One we do not name is the only heirloom of our long-gone greatness that remains. Be glad that you are not burdened with such a grim legacy.'' 

For that the Prince of Rohan had no answer, and they passed the silent Mounds. Following the winding way up to the green shoulders of the hills, they came at last to the wide, wind-swept walls and the gates of Edoras. 

There sat many men in bright mail, who sprang at once to their feet and greeted their Prince with raised spears, but looked upon the stranger in his company with wonder in their eyes. For well they knew the White Tree of Mundburg, but rarely had they seen one who carried it on his shield. 

''Hail, Théodred son of Théoden!'' they said. ''Glad will be the heart of the King that you have returned to his halls safely. But what name shall we report for the one who came with you? And what shall we say of him?'' 

''Tell my father that the Heir of Gondor has come, passing through the Mark on his journey, seeking rest,'' Théodred answered. ''A guest of my own shall he be and shelter shall he take in the guest room next to my own chambers. For the hour has already grown late and it would not be proper to keep the King from his much-needed rest. But early in the morrow I shall escort our guest to his halls myself.'' 

One of the guards bowed and went to report to the King the arrival of Denethor's son. Another took their horses to the stables; the others swung the dark gates open and Boromir entered, walking beside the Prince of Rohan. They followed the broad path, paved with hewn stones, now winding upward, now climbing in short flights of well-laid steps. Many houses built of wood and many dark doors they passed. Beside the way, in a stone channel, a stream of clear water flowed, sparkling and chattering. 

At length they came to the crown of the hill. There stood a high platform above a green terrace, at the foot of which a bright spring gushed from a stone carved in the likeness of a horse's head; beneath was a wide basin from which the water spilled and fed the falling stream. 

Up the green terrace went a stair of stone, high and broad, and on either side of the topmost step were stone-hewn seats. There sat other guards, with drawn swords laid upon their knees. Their golden hair was braided on their shoulders; the last rays of the setting sun blazed upon their green shields, their long corslets were burnished bright, and when they rose to greet their Prince properly, taller they seemed than mortal Men. 

''Hail, Théodred son of Théoden!'' they cried with clear voices - and then they turned the hilts of their swords towards the guest in token of peace. Green gems flashed reddish in the fading sunlight. Then one of the guards stepped forward, bowed before the guest and spoke to him respectfully. 

''Welcome to the halls of Meduseld, Boromir son of Denethor,'' he said. ''I am the Doorward of Théoden. Háma is my name. The King of the Mark has been told of your arrival and given you leave to rest in his halls. But I must ask you to appear before him early in the morrow as Prince Théodred promised. For he is eager to hear trustworthy news from the South, where all our worries lie.'' 

''That I will do, to pay my respects to the King,'' Boromir replied, and the guard stepped aside and gestured him to enter, not through the doors of Théoden's Golden Hall but through another one on the right side, which, as Boromir already knew, led directly to a wide corridor, off of which Théodred's chambers opened. 

One of these was the guest room that the Crown Prince had mentioned earlier: a rather large one with wide open windows, for the Rohirrim, not unlike the Elves whom they feared and mistrusted, welcomed the caress of wind and sunlight on their faces, even inside the house. There was a small bath-room attached to the sleeping chamber, and Boromir sank gratefully into the wooden tub of hot water, fragrant with herbal oils. After a week of horseback, it was heaven on earth. The only thing he missed was a good birching after the bath(2), but the Rohirrim did not follow that Elvish custom, so he accepted what he had and was content. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

After he had finished his bath, servants came and brought him a late supper. And Théodred came, too, to accompany him during his meal. He brought some very fine red wine to quaff, for like all the high-spirited sons of his people, the Prince loved a good drink and a good song in the company of a friend. 

So they shared the food and the wine and talked about Gondor and the Mark, about their families, about bloody skirmishes with Orcs and other foul creatures like the old friends that they were, despite the rareness of their meetings. But they did not sing this night, for the news they shared was rather dark, and they did not feel like jesting, either, turning the words to their worries rather than to merry things. 

Théodred spoke with great fondness of Éomer whom he loved like a brother (but not the same way you love yours, the cruel little voice in Boromir's heart said), for indeed, they had grown up together after the untimely death of the younger man's parents, and Théodred had always been Éomer's mentor and protector and friend. 

Then their talk turned to Éowyn, whom Théodred seemed to love and admire just as much as he did her brother - or mayhap even more. 

''That is a true daughter of the House of Éorl,'' he said, ''the daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, my father-sister! Fearless and high-hearted she is, a shieldmaiden who can ride a horse and wield a sword better than most men of her age - and beautiful she is as the rising sun. All love her. Had she been born to my father instead of his sister, she might have become the first ruling Queen of the Mark, and brought more glory to it than many of its Kings long gone. For tall and slender she is, as well as brave and strong, with a grace and pride that come to her out of the South, from Morwen of Lossarnach, our grandmother, whom the Rohirrim called Steelsheen in her youth.'' 

He told Boromir many other things about the Mark, but after these words Boromir became distracted and followed his own thoughts, not really listening any more. What he had been told about Éowyn of Rohan made him believe that she would be more than a match for him, in both nobility and stubbornness, but albeit he wanted to know badly whether his father had, indeed, made his proposal already, he did not dare to ask, fearing that he would reveal his true feelings and hurt Théodred, who seemed to be very proud of his cousin. And so Théodred left after another hour, and Boromir lay awake in his bed for a long time, bitterly cursing his own cowardice. 

* * * * * * *

End notes: 

(1) To Théodred's age: It is said in the ''Unfinished Tales'' that Théodred was 13 years older than Éomer. According to the timeline in the Appendix of ''The Return of the King'', Boromir was born in the year 2978 of the Third Age and Éomund in 2991 - which makes him exactly 13 years younger than Boromir. So I only had to chose who of the two friends was a few months older, and I opted for Théodred, because I wanted to give Boromir some sort of 'older brother'.  
(2) As I said in the review section: Birching is a health practice that was very popular among my own people in the early Middle Ages. People would go to the sauna and sweat thoroughly. Then came a person (usually a servant or someone who worked in a public bath, depends on the place) and hit their backs with flexible twigs (though they used willow twigs by us, if I remember correctly), to relax tense muscles. It was akin to massage. Finally, they would pour cold water over the bath guest and he would feel like re-born.


	3. Chapter 2: Steelsheen

THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Aud of the deep eyes, Théodred's wife and Imogen, Elfhelm's wife are mine.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

**Author's note:**

I want to thank all the people who read and reviewed the original version. I hope you will like this one, too. There won't be any important changes - save that I have removed the unsatisfying end scene and postponed it to a later chapter. But the remaining text is basically unchanged. 

My sincerest thanks to Danielle for beta-reading.  


CHAPTER TWO: STEELSHEEN 

The next morning Théodred came for him as promised and escorted him to the Golden Hall of Théoden. This was not Boromir's first visit to the long and wide hall filled with shadows and half-lights, mighty pillars upholding its lofty roof, but - as always - a strange feeling of awe overcame his heart upon entering it. 

For though the Golden Hall of Meduseld was uncountable years younger than Minas Tirith, it gave one the feeling of having stepped into an ancient tale from long before the written word with the rich carvings of its pillars, gleaming dully with gold and half-seen colours; with the stones of its pavement, stones of many hues, with branching runes and strange devices intertwined beneath his feet; with its many woven cloths that hung upon the walls, figures of ancient legends marching over their wide spaces, some dim with years, some darkling in shade. 

In the midst of the hall there was a long hearth, with a clear wood-fire burning upon it. Boromir, flanked by the Prince of Rohan, went forward past the fire and came to the far end of the house. A dais was there, a dais with three steps; and in the middle of the dais was a great gilded chair. Upon it sat a man, bent painfully with age, but his white hair was long and thick and fell in great braids from beneath a thin golden circlet set upon his brow. In the centre upon his forehead shone a single white diamond. His beard lay like snow upon his knees, but his eyes still burned with a bright light, glinting as he gazed at the heir of his strongest ally. 

Still, Boromir, whose last visit to Meduseld had been many years ago, was shaken to see the weakened state of this once tall and proud man. He knew the Rohirrim did not share the longevity of his own Númenorean race, but seeing the burden of age upon a man who was eighteen years younger than his still strong, proud and shrewd father, was sobering and remainded him how fragile the life of Men truly was. 

For a while, there was silence among them. The King had not acknowledged his presence yet, and it would have been rude for Boromir to speak first, being not only much younger but a guest in the King's halls as well. Finally, the old man looked up to his face and greeted him, saying: 

''Hail, Boromir son of Denethor! Always welcome our trustworthy allies from Gondor are in my halls; in these times of doubt more than ever. Tell me about the news from the South and about your errand that brings you this far from home.'' 

''Alas! Little have I to tell, and most of it would give your heart little comfort, King Théoden,'' Boromir said. ''By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; but if the passages of the River should be won, what then?'' 

''What indeed?'' Théodred murmured softly. 

The small, puny, pale-faced man that sat upon the steps at the King's feet lifted his heavy lids for a moment and gazed at the Prince with dark eyes full of mistrust, but said nothing. 

''Yet that hour, mayhap, is not far away,'' Boromir continued, well aware of the strange, wordless interlude between the Prince and the King's counsellor of old, who the small man must be; he remembered having seen that pale face at times during his earlier visits. ''The Nameless Enemy has arisen again, and our folk have been driven from Ithilien, though we kept a foothold there and strength of arms. 

''But this very year, less than a month ago, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor and we were swept away, outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim - and we were defeated by some unknown power, a nameless shadow that filled our foes with battle-madness but with mindless fear even our boldest men; and we have lost the ruins of Osgiliath and were forced to destroy the last bridge.'' 

''Strange it is that in these dire times the Heir of Gondor's Steward would leave his realm unguarded to travel to the North,'' the counsellor said in a soft voice, without looking at them. 

''Desperate steps need to be taken in desperate times,'' Boromir replied, wishing for the first (but not for the last) time during his journey that his brother had been sent out on this errand in his stead. 

For Faramir, well-versed in lore and poetry, was much better with words than Boromir; and also did he possess some of their father's merciless wit, and could put it to good use if the need arose. 

''I have been sent on an errand by my father, the Lord Denethor,'' he continued; ''to seek out the dwelling place of Elrond Half-Elven, the greatest lore-master of this age. I am to ask him for counsel about a strange dream that not even my father, who is wise in the lore of Gondor, was able to unravel. I have to find Imladris, the valley where Elrond is said to dwell.'' 

''Imladris!'' The pale counsellor at the King's feet laughed quietly. ''Elven-valleys and songs and dreams! Do you want to defeat the Dark Lord with the pretty lies of the fair-faced folk, Denethor's heir?'' 

Boromir looked down at the small, bent man whose thin face revealed naught of the thoughts hidden behind those dark, heavy-lidded eyes and shuddered faintly. It seemed to him as if he was gazing at a small but very poisonous snake. And out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed for the first time a woman, clad in white, standing behind the King's high chair. 

''The Steward of Gondor, who has seen many strange things, good and evil alike, felt this dream meaningful enough to send me out to heed it,'' he said, directing his words toward the King rather than his counsellor, ''and I obey the will of my father as I have always done and as I always shall do.'' 

''And why do you believe that - even if you might find that valley, which I very much doubt, for Elves keep hidden in these times and do not interfere with the dealings of mortal Men -, that this Elrond would be ready to help you?'' the counsellor insisted. 

Boromir furrowed his brow. 

''The Men of Gondor do not share your mistrust towards the Elder Kin, Master Counsellor,'' he said in a voice that clearly told he was not ready to discuss this. ''And Elrond, might he still dwell in Middle-earth, is bound to help our case. His own brother was the first King of Westernesse and the founder of our whole race.'' 

The counsellor seemed about to answer, but the old King raised a wrinkled hand and ordered him to be quiet. 

''When are you taking your leave from my halls?'' Théoden then asked. ''You are welcome to stay and rest as long as you wish.'' 

''I do thank you for your courtesy, my good lord,'' Boromir said, ''But my errand does not brook any delay. I shall be leaving upon the morrow.'' 

''You may do as you wish,'' the old man slowly rose to his feet, leaning heavily upon a short black staff with a handle of white bone. ''I need to return to my chambers and think over these tidings. Should we not see each other in the morn, I am thereby bidding farewell to you right here. May your journey be safe and successful.'' 

As he left his chair, the woman hastened to his side, taking his arm; and with faltering steps the old man came down from the dais and paced softly through the hall. The counsellor rose as well to hurry after them, and reached the side door they were approaching at the same time. 

''You can leave the King with me, Lady,'' he said. ''I shall care for him.'' 

''Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter!'' said the old King, seeing her reluctance. ''I need to speak with Gríma alone.'' 

The woman turned and went slowly to the other end of the Golden Hall, likely in order to return to her own chambers. As she passed the doors that led outside she turned again and looked back. Grave and thoughtful was her glance as she looked at the King with cool pity in her ice-blue eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed nevertheless and stern as steel - a daughter of Kings if ever there was one. 

Thus Boromir for the first time in the full light of day beheld Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, whom his father wanted him to wed, and found her fair, fair and cold like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood. And the thought that she might become bound to a man like himself filled his heart with guilt and sorrow, for he feared that her pure, untouched beauty would fade in the stone cage of Minas Tirith, taken by his uncaring hand, just as his mother had faded away into early death under the cold hand and even colder heart of Denethor. 

Ere he had thought of what he was about to do, Boromir hurried along the hall, reaching Éowyn before she could leave, and approached her, saying: 

''Lady Éowyn, may I ask for a word with you?'' 

She turned her clear, blue eyes to him in mild astonishment and said: 

''Speak then.'' 

''Not here,'' he answered, ''For my words are for your ears only, and I do not wish anyone else to listen.'' 

Éowyn seemed unsure for a moment, then she thought about it and nodded. 

''It is no custom of the daughters of Éorl's House to speak with strange men alone. But as long as we stay in plain sight of everyone, I believe it would be allowed. Follow me, Lord of Gondor, and I shall bring you to such a place.'' 

''Call me not the Lord of Gondor,'' he said, ''For 'tis not my right yet to be called by that name; nor do I long for the day when it shall be. My father is the one who deserves that title of honour, and I hope for the sake of Gondor and of us all that he will proudly bear it for a long time yet. But I shall follow you to whatever place you deem appropriate for us to talk in private.'' 

With that they left the Golden Hall, not noticing the two pairs of eyes that followed them: full of gentle appreciation those of Théodred, Crown Prince of the Mark, but full of jealous hatred those of Gríma son of Gálmód, counsellor of Théoden King. 

Éowyn led him to the porch upon the top of the high terrace from whence they could see beyond the stream the green fields of Rohan fading into distant grey. The sky above them was darkening with the clouds of an oncoming storm, but far away the river glittered like shimmering ice, and the sunlight shone upon Éowyn's golden flow of hair like fire. 

Fire and ice, gold and silver she was, the White Lady of Rohan; more beautiful, indeed, than any fair maiden Boromir could remember - and his heart was full of regret for not being able to let her in. But it is one of the oldest truths that one cannot choose whom they fall or fall not in love with - and honour demanded that he be honest to her. 

''We are alone,'' Éowyn said in that deep and soft voice of hers, speaking the Common tongue with the slight rolling accent of her kin. ''You may speak freely - no-one can hear us here.'' 

Boromir hesitated. Now that they were finally eye-to-eye, he did not know how to begin. Éowyn of Rohan, shieldmaiden of the North, was naught like the women of his own kin - not that he had talked at length to any woman in his whole life. 

Seeing his anguish, the Lady Éowyn smiled - a mirthless smile it was, looking strange on her fair face - and said: 

''Do not feel the need to speak in circles around me in the way your people seem to like so much. For I am of the House of Éorl and used to facing any sort of peril. I do not fear either pain or death.'' 

''Neither of which do I wish upon you'', Boromir answered, ''yet I fear that happiness may elude you because of me, should the plans of my father, the Steward of Gondor, bear fruit.'' 

Éowyn frowned, absently playing with a long lock of her golden hair. 

''Dim words do you speak, son of Denethor, and the meaning of them escapes me. What plans are you talking about?'' 

Boromir sighed. The directness of the Lady Éowyn was refreshing, yet it almost frightened him at the same time. Never had he met a woman of such nearly brutal honesty - he almost wished he could feel love for her, for she certainly was worthy to be at his side in the Great Hall of Stewards, as well as in battle. But since cruel fate - and his own traitorous heart - made it impossible for him to love her as she deserved to be loved, the least he could do was to return her honesty in equal measure. 

''It is the wish of the Lord Denethor that his Heir be wed to the White Lady of Rohan,'' he announced with the stiff formality Gondor's rulers always used when dealing with important matters. 

Éowyn seemed untouched by those words, as if it were not her life they were talking about. 

''But it is not your wish, I presume,'' she said with cold detachment. 

It was not a question. 

Boromir shook his head, ashamed. How he regretted wounding the pride of this noble woman! But honesty and openness demanded to be met with equal measures of the same, and he could not have lied to her, even if he wished to. 

''What I might or might not wish is of little consequence. My father orders my life, as did his father for him, and his father's fathers, back to Mardil Voronwë, the Good Steward and founder of our House. For I am his first-born and his Heir, and my duty is to our House and to the people of Gondor, and the longings of my own heart mean naught in this matter.'' 

Éowyn watched him for a moment, her ice-blue eyes melting a little, and there was sympathy in her glance. 

''I regret that the decision of the Lord Denethor brings you so much pain,'' she said, her voice much softer now. ''But I need to tell you this: Should your father make his proposal to Théoden King - and I hope he shall do it, soon - I will beg the King to give his blessing to the match.'' 

This unexpected announcement nearly knocked Boromir off his feet. Never, ever had he thought that Éowyn might find such an arranged marriage desirable - nor could he imagine her begging for anything at all. 

''So you would be willing to become my wife?'' he asked, unable to hide his disbelief. 

Éowyn raised a fine eyebrow. 

''Why should I not? Do you not find me a worthy consort for the future Steward of Gondor? I may not be called a princess, but I have the blood of Kings in my veins nevertheless. Or do you not feel up to the task of taming a wild shieldmaiden of the North? Am I not fine enough for your tastes?'' 

It was hard to tell if she was only jesting or downright insulted, for her face remained unreadable. Boromir shook his head in despair. 

''Éowyn, it is not you who is unworthy, it is I! Not only am I far too old for you, I also gave my heart utterly a long time ago to someone who will not, cannot ever love me the same way in return; to someone I should never have fallen in love with; to someone whom I will never be able to forget, not even if I live for a thousand years... or longer. A forbidden love it is, doomed from the beginning, bringing naught but shame and pain to me; a guilty secret that I have shared only with my brother - and now with you. How could I bind you to me, knowing well that I would never be able to give you the love and happiness you so richly deserve?'' 

Éowyn did not give him an immediate answer. For a short while she just stood there, quietly, listening to her own heart. Then she looked up into Boromir's tormented face, smiled sadly and said: 

''Rarely are the children of ruling Houses allowed to follow their own hearts. We all have to fulfill our duty towards the people we have been chosen to rule. And though my heart has not yet been touched by love for any man, your secret does not repel me, son of Denethor. If there is a chance that we might become friends, I would be willing to wed you.'' 

''There is, indeed,'' Boromir answered, stunned. ''In truth, I already feel great respect for you; and I admire you, for you are noble and brave - and more beautiful than I would be able to tell it, even with words of the Elven-tongue. But why you would wish to take upon you a loveless marriage is beyond my understanding. Surely, there has to be more than your sense of duty.'' 

''There very much is,'' Éowyn said, and a shadow darkened her fair face, much too young to bear such grief. ''There could be a fate waiting for me, far worse than a marriage spent in mutual respect and friendship, albeit without true love. You did notice the King's trusted counsellor, I believe.'' 

This was not a question, either. 

Boromir thought of the small, pale, weasel-like man whose heavy-lidded eyes seemed never to look straight at anyone - and shuddered. 

''Is he harassing you?'' 

Éowyn, too, shivered involuntarily. ''Long has he watched me in secret and haunted my steps,'' she answered in a voice full of loathing. ''I was but a child, had only seen thirteen summers, when I first noticed the way he looked at me... it made me want to retch. For many nights I hid in my brother's chambers, pretending to have nightmares, in fear that he would come to me. Then I grew tired of being afraid and chose to become a shieldmaiden in order to protect myself - for I knew him to be a coward.'' 

''Could your brother not protect you?'' Boromir asked with a frown. 

Éowyn let her guard lower a little; she sighed. 

''I do not want him to confront Gríma about me. For his place in the King's good graces is weakening already. Nor do I know what spell Gríma Wormtongue has cast upon our King, but it holds tightly... and he murmurs soft words of doubt in Théoden's ear about Éomer in the darkness of the Golden Hall. Were it not for Théodred who is more like a brother than a cousin to both of us, Éomer might be rotting in the deepest dungeon below Meduseld as we speak. The only one the King still listens to, aside from Gríma, is his son.'' 

''Did you at least tell Théodred about the counsellor's trespassing?'' Boromir demanded. 

Éowyn shook her head. 

''No, I did not. Delicate is the balance of power between him and Wormtongue, and his influence over Théoden's heart is needed for more important issues. I am but one woman, even if one of Éorl's House... keeping the Mark safe is more urgent than my safety. Besides, I am also a woman who can defend herself rather well.'' 

Boromir looked down upon her fair face and could not help but admire her selfless bravery; and he stooped and kissed her brow in great fondness and said: 

''Heavy with sorrow and guilt was my heart when I came to Théoden's halls, and heavier even it shall be when I depart in the morrow. For it pains me to leave you behind, alone, to the mercy of a worthless enemy... you, who would be worthy to take your place among the greatest queens of renown. But this I promise you: Should the Valar allow me to return from this perilous journey, I shall come for you and take you with me to the White City, if that should still be your wish and if your King gives his blessing. And I swear by my honour and by the sacred bones of my ancestors that I shall give you every happiness I can, however little it might be.'' 

''And I shall hold you to your sworn oath, my good lord,'' Éowyn answered. ''Do not fail me!'' 

With that she grabbed Boromir's face with both hands and kissed him on the lips hard, almost bruisingly - not the kiss of a lover, but the kiss of oath a warrior gives his or her sworn leader, as was custom among the Rohirrim when they bound themselves in a case of utmost importance. 

Making sure that the guards on their stone benches saw what she had done, the Lady Éowyn released Boromir, turned away and retreated into the house with no hurry. 

Denethor's Heir looked after her, sad and guilt-ridden once again. She was so much more noble than he, so solemn, fair and valiant. She did not deserve the only life he would be able to offer her. She deserved someone not only of strong arms and a keen mind but of gentle heart and wisdom as well. Someone who could love her and still be able to earn her respect. 

Someone like Faramir, the cold inner voice added. 

The bitter truth rammed through his heart like a dull knife. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

End note: 

Originally, the tale would have ended here, with a short passage about Boromir's departure from Meduseld. Now that I finally gathered the strength to continue this story, there will be some more interesting encounters, ere he leaves. g


	4. Chapter 3: A Short Interlude

THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Aud of the deep eyes, Théodred's wife and Imogen, Elfhelm's wife are mine.

Rating: PG-13 for this chapter – just to be on the safe side. Prince Théodred was feeling a little amorous.

**Author's notes:**

Now, this is a completely new chapter, and it handles some Rohirric trivia I have not dealt with earlier. They were taken from the RPG webpage concerning Rohan (see URL below). Needless to say that all those ''facts'' referring to the Clans and Houses of the Rohirrim do not belong to me. I only borrowed them to create a more authentic atmosphere – and because I don't know a thing about horses.

More can be found at: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture.html, if anyone is interested.

I also intend to use the here established ''facts'' about Éomer and Aud's ancestry in my Elfhelm-story, which I have been planning for quite some time – even though it's not coming yet. Not for a few more months, anyway.

The clothing Aud wears in this chapter is as authentic as it can get. I've taken it from a book about the history of fashion from Ancient Egypt to our days. I'd love to give you guys the title, but since it's in Hungarian, it's unlikely that many of you would be able to enjoy it. Too bad, it's a great book. sighs

My sincerest thanks to Danielle for beta-reading.

And now on with the story.

CHAPTER THREE: A SHORT INTERLUDE 

Though Boromir wished to spend some time alone and think about the highly unexpected turn his conversation with the Lady Éowyn had taken, he never came to it. For ere he could return to his chamber, a handmaiden came for him and told him that Princess Aud wished to have a word with him ere he retreated for the night. And since the Lady Aud was the wife of the Crown Prince and the future Queen of Rohan, he could hardly say 'nay' to her request.

Not that he would have done so, even if he had the chance. Aud of the deep eyes, as she was called among her own people, had been as dear a friend to him as her husband, ever since they had first met at the Crown Prince's wedding.

Unlike the nobles of Gondor, Théodred possessed no study or library adjoining his chambers, even though he rather liked reading (at least for one of the Horse-lords – a trait that he doubtlessly inherited from his Gondorian grandmother). Théoden King looked after the proper education of his Heir, but let him arrange his living quarters as he liked – which was the traditional Rohirric fashion.

The Crown Prince lived in a large hall, divided into a living and a sleeping area by the great hearth in the middle, with little furniture in it, save the wide bed of dark wood at the far wall of the hall, hung with beautifully-woven, heavy cloths, and a few artfully-crafted chests along the side walls, richly carved and held together by iron bands wrought in the shape of grapevines and leaves. The walls were hung with wondrously vivid tapestries, showing battle scenes and the deeds of Théodred's forefathers.

In the living area there stood a long table of heavy oak, richly carved but unpolished, and around it there were a few high-backed chairs, made in the same fashion, without upholstery. Only a small writing desk – the sort at which the scribe stood while writing – and a shelf with a few books revealed that the dwellers of this hall were not completely unused to the finer arts.

When Boromir entered the hall, Aud of the deep eyes rose from her loom in the adjoining workroom where she was about to finish a great tapestry presenting Éorl the Young as he rode into battle(1), and came in to greet her guest.

''Hail, son of Denethor!'' she said in her deep, pleasantly rough voice that made men shiver upon hearing it. ''It has been too long since you visited our halls; and I regret to hear that you must leave so soon.''

''The regret is all mine, Lady Aud,'' Boromir bowed deeply. ''Gladly would I spend many hours of merriment with you and your husband and share wine and songs as was our pleasure in years gone by. Yet matters of state order me away from your valued hospitality.''

''Then I thank you for giving up part of your well-earned rest in order to accept my invitation,'' Aud smiled at what she called 'the swollen speech of the Gondorians' and waved towards a chair. ''Do have a seat and drink a cup of wine with me. The Prince shall arrive soon.''

Boromir accepted the chair, and one of the Lady's handmaidens came forth, bringing not a cup but a golden chalice adorned with white and green gems; it contained the traditional welcoming drink of the Rohirrim: heavy, spiced red wine. Aud drank from the chalice then nodded, and the maid proffered it to Boromir, saying:

''Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee in thy going and coming.''

Boromir accepted the chalice with a respectful bow of his head, as was expected, and drank. The wine was heavy, indeed, and he thanked fate that it was not winter, or else the maid would have heated the drink, making it even harder to bear. 'Twas no use to try and match drinks with the Rohirrim(2).

''Thank you, Elgitha'', the Lady said. ''Leave us alone now, if you would.''

The maid bowed and retreated, but only into the workroom to continue her needlework, for it would have been unseemly for the Lady of the Mark to speak to a strange man alone – even if he was an ally. Boromir sipped carefully from the strong wine (custom demanded that he empty the chalice eventually), watching the Princess in silent admiration.

From Clan Ethias(3) the Lady Aud descended, from the House of Dúnwarta(4) – one of the oldest in the Mark –, and Erkenbrand was her father, Master of the Westfold(5) and Lord of Hornburg, a great leader of his people, second only to the royal family. Like her father, tall and strong and dark-haired she was, for her grandmother came from Lossarnach to Rohan, in the escort of Queen Morwen, Théoden's mother.

She also must have inherited the longevity of her Gondorian ancestors, for though she was three years older than her husband (and therefore older than Boromir, too), it seemed that she had not aged a day since her wedding – which had been eighteen years earlier. Only the wistful sadness in her eyes revealed that she was not as young as she looked.

Proud and noble her features were, and her eyes were blue – not the usual ice-blue of the Rohirrim but deep and dark blue like the midnight sky in high summer, which was one of the reasons she was called 'Aud of the deep eyes' – the other being that she could read the hearts of men and no-one was able to deceive her with lies or half-truths.

As was the custom among the noblewomen of the Rohirrim, she wore a simple, long-sleeved gown of burgundy red linen and over that a golden-coloured robe left open on both sides, with a shoulder piece cut so wide that it covered her arms to the elbows and with a neckband that looked like a narrow collar.

Only her head-dress spoke of her high status: a jewelled golden coronet that adorned her brow and a cap of burgundy velvet and golden lace that hid her braided and pinned-up hair from the dust and lint of her daily work at the loom.

She was a fair, proud and noble lady. Not by her marriage only but in her own right as well: a former shieldmaiden, one of the first who had answered Théoden King's call more than twenty years ago(6). Not even after wedding the Crown Prince did she put her sword down, and Théodred loved her too much to deny her the right to ride into battle at his side.

So great was the love between them, indeed, that when it had been discovered that the Lady Aud would never be able to bear children – due to the dry fever that she miraculously survived in her early youth –, Théodred would not even think of exercising his right and leaving her in order to wed another woman – one who could give him heirs. This caused Théoden much sorrow, but he loved his only son too dearly to force him to do so for the kingdom's sake.

Boromir realized with a suddden jerk that he had been staring at the Princess too openly – and for quite some time.

''Forgive me, Lady Aud,'' he said, ''my mind was wandering.''

''So it seems,'' Aud agreed with a laugh, ''but I do forgive you. You have been riding hard and fast; and you spent half a night drinking with my husband – small wonder that you are weary.''

''I regret to have kept your husband away from you,'' Boromir murmured, ashamed, but all he got was another laugh.

''The only thing you both should regret was not inviting me along,'' the Princess said with a grin, and Boromir once again had to remind himself that he was not dealing with one of the refined court ladies of Minas Tirith – for which he was very grateful.

''What is it then you want to speak with me about?'' he asked.

''Éowyn,'' Aud answered promptly, not being one to speak in circles about matters of importance, either. Refreshing directness was a common trait of the Rohirrim.

Boromir raised a questioning eyebrow, which earned him another heartfelt laugh from the Princess.

''Only tidings are swifter than the horses of the Mark, my friend,'' she said. ''Hardly had you parted from Éowyn when one of my maids hurried in, flushed and excited beyond measure, to tell me what had happened. So; since Éowyn is my kinswoman and a dear friend above that – and since I know all too well that she usually behaves _not_ that way – I wish to learn what is going on between the two of you.''

''And so do I,'' added the familiar voice of Théodred, and the Crown Prince of the Mark, now without his mail and helmet, entered the hall.

''There is naught to tell,'' said Boromir, turning away his eyes uncomfortably while Théodred kissed his wife soundly and unhurriedly, covering a plump breast with his large hand and caressing it with his thumb through the double layers of her clothing.

Aud gave his hand a none too gentle slap.

''Behave, my Lord! 'Tis not the proper time to make our guest envious. What does it mean there is naught to tell?'' she turned to Boromir, disentangling herself from her husband's possessive arms.

''Only what I said,'' Boromir answered with regret. ''There are no tender feelings between the Lady Éowyn and I.''

''She would not kiss you before all eyes if that were so,'' Théodred shook his head angrily. ''She is a proud and noble lady. If she did such a thing, she must have good reasons to do so, I am certain of _that_.''

''She had,'' Boromir said. ''We have… reached an understanding.''

''What sort of understanding?'' Théodred asked with suspicion. He had always been very protective of his much younger cousins and wished not for someone to hurt them.

''That I would wed her, should I come back from this quest unharmed,'' Boromir answered simply.

Théodred and Aud remained silent for a long while. Then Aud rose, went to the workroom and sent all her maids away. The last thing they needed was _this_ conversation making its rounds in Edoras.

''Is this what _you_ want,'' she then asked, ''or is this what _she_ wants?''

''Neither,'' Boromir said. ''This is what my father, the Steward of Gondor wants, in order to bring our lands closer again through the old custom of making the bonds of matrimony serve the needs of the people of two lands.''

''Which you are ready to do, on a whim of your father,'' Théodred said, clearly not liking what he was hearing.

''Just as I have always obeyed him, no matter what he ordered me to do,'' Boromir nodded. ''This will be good for Gondor and good for Rohan. And the Lady Éowyn is the most worthy consort any Lord of a land could wish.''

''There is no doubt about _that_,'' Aud replied, ''yet I would like to know how you persuaded her to accept your offer. A moon ago she would not even listen to any wedding plans, let alone make one of her own.''

''I persuaded her not,'' said Boromir. ''I only spoke to her of my father's wishes, and she agreed ere I was finished. Mayhap she is not as content in Edoras as everyone seems to think and hopes for a change in her life. I cannot say. I was fairly surprised myself.''

''You cannot… or you wish not to?'' Aud stared at him like a snake at a bird, seeking  hidden meanings. She clearly sensed that he had not told her the whole truth.

Few could have withstood the strength of her will, but Boromir grew up under the piercing glare of his father, and after the Lord Denethor not even Aud of the deep eyes could bend his will.

''Ask me not, Lady Aud, and I shall tell you no lies,'' he answered, and at that, Aud finally turned her eyes away.

''Has your father already made his proposal?'' Théodred asked with a frown. He liked not being left out when family matters were decided.

''That,'' said Boromir, ''is a question I intended to ask _you_. The Steward of Gondor shares his plans with no-one – not even his sons. I hoped that the King of the Mark would be more forthcoming towards his Heir.''

''Alas, my father cares little for affairs of state lately,'' Théodred murmured in defeat. ''You have seen with your own eyes what he has become. All tidings go straight to Gríma in these days – though I know not why he would hold back such a message.''

Reminding himself that Éowyn wanted not Théodred to confront Wormtongue because of her, Boromir chose his answer with the utmost care.

''If that snake wants Rohan weak, for what reason I cannot see, then he would hate such a bond to be made between our lands.''

''True,'' Théodred nodded thoughtfully. ''Ever has he tried to make me and Éomer rivals – enemies even, if he may. 'Tis our blessing that Éomer is such a faithful ally and wants not to become King, or else our land would be torn apart by kinstrife. For he is very much beloved among his Clan – so beloved, indeed, that the Éowain(7) might even support his claim for the throne.''

''After all, he _might_ become the heir yet,'' Aud added bitterly.

In spite of the love between her and Théodred, she always felt guilty that the line of the Kings might die out because of her barrenness. She would have been ready to step aside, she had even offered to, but Théodred would not listen.

''He would never turn against you,'' Boromir assured the Crown Prince. ''No more than my own brother would wish to take the stewardship from me!''

''That I know,'' Théodred sighed, ''and I thank the gods(8) for his faithful heart. Yet I must agree with you about Gríma. He might hold back your father's message – if he had not done so already.''

''You have not told us everything you know about this matter, my friend,'' Aud said quietly, giving Boromir another long, hard look.

''Nay, I have not,'' Boromir admitted, ''but ask me no more, my Lady, I beg you. I gave my word that I would remain silent about some details in this matter, and I intend to keep my promise.''

''And I ask you not to bend your given word,'' Aud nodded, ''though I have my own thoughts about this.''

''You knew something and you would not tell me?'' Théodred stared at her in slight bewilderment.

Aud sighed. ''I _know_ naught, husband. I have some _guesses_. We shall speak of this when I have asked my questions and gotten some answers. Not before.''

Théodred shrugged, knowing that it would be useless to press his wife for answers she clearly was not ready to give – not yet, at least. He knew that at the proper time Aud would tell him everything of importance, while keeping the petty details to herself, as she always did. He could live with this arrangement. It always worked for them.

''As you wish,'' he said. ''But if Gríma is, indeed, working against this marriage, believe you not that _we_ should work in its favor?''

''There is little to naught that _we_ could do,'' replied Aud soberly. ''Éowyn is the only one who can turn things in the right way, and she has already set a clear enough sign of her intentions – for any one with eyes.''

''I am still uncertain if this is the right thing for her to do,'' Théodred murmured. ''She is too young to accept an arranged bond for reasons of state – to choose a husband she loves not and who only weds her for the sake of our lands… for that is the truth, is it not, Boromir?''

''To my regret, it is,'' Boromir nodded.

''I thought so,'' sighed Théodred. ''And though you are my friend, I would wish her a better fate… and a happier life.''

''So do I,'' answered Boromir quietly, ''yet if she keeps to her choice, I shall not fail her.''

That, he could promise honestly. He only feared that it would not be enough to make her life a happy and content one.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

I know, it was absolutely unnecessary for the story itself to describe Théodred's dwellings and his wife in loving details. I just could not resist, okay? They would be killed off in ''Ice Blossom'' mercilessly anyway, therefore I wanted to give them a chance to shine, so bear with me, would you?

Below some other loving details. This time about the Rohirrim. As always, feel free to ignore them.

  


* * *

(1) I assumed that this is the same tapestry Aragorn and his companions saw in the Golden Hall about half a year later. It does not have to be the same, of course, but it _could_ be. After all, it's almost completed, right? g

(2) I've read something similar in Sir Walter Scott's wonderful historical novel ''Ivanhoe'', and thought it would match Rohirric customs perfectly. Since it was over 30 years, though, I'm not absolutely sure about the details. I borrowed the name of the maid from there, too.

(3) The more settled part of the Rohirric population, dwelling in the West-mark.

(4) After much consideration I decided that this would be the House Erkenbrand belonged to.

(5) Later, when Éomer became King of the Mark, Erkenbrand was made Lord of the whole West-mark.

(6) According to Michael Martinez, it was probably Théoden who re-established the institution of the shieldmaidens, after his father Thengel had led a much too Gondorian life for the taste of his own people. See: ''Ferthu Théoden Hál!'' Tolkien doesn't mention other shieldmaidens, but it would be a little unlikely if Éowyn were the only one in Rohan.

(7) The mostly nomadic part of Rohirric population that dwelt in the East-mark. I assumed that Éomer's forefathers were of this Clan, since they had lived in the Eastfold, ever since Rohan was founded.

(8) Since Tolkien tells us literally nothing about Rohirric beliefs – though they don't seem to share the beliefs of the Dúnedain and Elves concerning Ilúvatar and the Valar –, I gave them a religion akin to that of the pagan Anglo-Saxon people. It would play no role in this story; I only mentioned the gods to create some continuity with the Elfhelm tale that is to come.


	5. Chapter 4: Parting Gifts

THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Aud of the deep eyes, Théodred's wife and Imogen, Elfhelm's wife are mine.

Rating: PG-13 for implied m/m context.

**Author's note:**

Now, this chapter starts with the short farewell scene between Boromir and Théodred; this was how the original story ended. I didn't change it, for in its simplicity it seemed to me very characteristic for these two men: both warriors (though I see Boromir more a soldier than a warrior; believe me, there is a _big_ difference), both devoted to their lands and their Lords. The significance of this particular scene is, that this is the last time they would see each other – for a few months later they both will be dead.

It is interesting, that they were slain almost on the same day: Théodred on the 25th February (3019, Third Age), Boromir on the 26th.

Also, I added a cameo scene for my favourite Rohirric character. This chapter has the main purpose to give Boromir some more information about the current situation in the Mark – and to tie in a later story, which would have this particular character as the main hero, and the title would be ''Emissary of the Mark''.

As always, background information about the Rohirric culture and situation is partially borrowed from the RPG webpage concerning Rohan (see url below). Needless to say that all those ''facts'' referring to the Clans and Houses of the Rohirrim do not belong to me. I only borrowed them to create a more authentic atmosphere – and because I don't know a thing about horses.

More can be found at: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture.html, if anyone is interested.

Chapter four: Parting Gifts 

On the next morrow Boromir took his leave from King Théoden and his court and prepared to continue his journey. He wished he could say his farewell to the Lady Éowyn as well, but she was nowhere to see and he did not want to ask. Their private conversation, and moreso its unexpected end, had no doubt found its way to the King's ear by now (and everyone else's in Edoras, most likely); it was better not to give any more fuel to rumours.

Théodred joined him in the stables where he found his horse fed and well-rested, ready for the next, hard ride.

''Your escort awaits you at the gates of Edoras'', the Crown Prince of Rohan told him.

''I have no escort'', Boromir replied in surprise.

Théoden laughed.

''You have one now. It would be unseeming if we left you ride across the Mark alone. We might become kinsmen, after all.''

Boromir shook his head but could not repress a smile. Now it seemed that he made sure of that the alliance between Gondor and the Mark would be strengthened through a wedding between the ruling Houses. And though Éowyn was obviously willing to take what little he could offer her, somehow it still felt wrong. As if he had cheated not only on his own heart but on that brave woman as well.

This was not the time for such ponderings, though. His errand had not lost from its urgency, and he had to leave now. Yet before he could say his farewells to Théodred, the Prince of Rohan pulled a small item out from behind his belt and reached it to him on his open palm. A small, rectangular silver clasp it was, simple in its design and darkened with age, but the likeness of the White Tree of Gondor adorned it.

''This is an old heirloom of our family, that came to us with Morwen of Lossornach and was given from mother to daughter until it came to Éowyn'', Théodred said. ''She asked me to give it to you as a token of your... understanding. She also said, that should your have a change of heart, you have to send it back to her as a message.''

Boromir nodded, shaken to the bone from the directness and generosity of the Lady of Rohan and fastened the clasp on the neck of his dark blue, velvet jacket.

''I shall do as she required.''

Théodred gave him a curious look.

''You would not tell me what happened between the two of us, would you?''

Boromir sighed.

''My friend, I pray to the Valar that you never learn what lies behind all of this. For an understanding this is, nothing more, and a bitter one above that. Let it be, do not ask, for it would not gave your heart any comfort.''

Théodred nodded, albeit reluctantly, and they bid each other their farewells after all. Then Boromir mounted his horse and rode down to the outer gates of Meduseld. His escort was already waiting for him.

Before leaving the gates, he turned back for one last time and saw a lonely white figure on the high terrace, shimmering like silver in the light of dawn, long golden hair flattering in the light wind.

It was Éowyn.

Boromir raised his hand to bid his farewell to the White Lady of Rohan, and she returned the gesture. Then he turned his horse around and faced the Ford again.

Before the gates his escort was waiting: twelve Riders, all tall and lean and gold-haired, save two. One of those Boromir knew well, though they had not met for… well, at least for five or six years.

Elfhelm son of Hengest was a kinsman of young Éomer and the Lady Éowyn, coming from tha House of Fréablod of Clan Éowain, just like Éomund, their father. In fact, Hengest was an elder cousin of Éomund's – of second or third grade, if Boromir remembered rightly. The Rohirrim had a strange word for this grade of kinship that simply could not be translated into the Common Speech. So, Boromir decided that Elfhelm was some sort of cousin to Éomund's children, and that had always worked for him.

After Éomund's death the rank of the _Maegtheow_(1) passed over to Elfhelm's father, for Éomer was considered too young for such responsibility. Their family lived in the Eastfold, in the fortified village of Stowburg, which had always been the seat of the Clan Master, though Éomund and Théodwyn had dwelt in Aldburg, Éorl's old home, as it was their right.

Boromir had visited Elfhelm's home once, for Hengest also carried the office of the _Erkenstedamaegister_(2), therefore his approval was needed to sell horses to Gondor. Boromir remembered the wide, grassy valley with a river in the middle of it and an old fortress on the farther side. Aside of the grazing grounds, they also had fertile plough lands in that valley that was called the corn-pantry of the Mark.

They had a large family, unusually large even for the child-loving Rohirrim. Elfhelm had eight brothers and two sisters; the latters, sadly, had died from childhood illnesses, but the male children all reached adulthood, and the old 'burg was full of their spouses and their own children, for – unlike the nobles of Gondor – the Horse-lords preferred to have their extended family around.

Most of Elfhelm's brothers looked like their father in his youth: tall, blonde and blue-eyed. Elfhelm alone inherited the reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes of their mother, Imoleth of Rhún. This made him rather appealing in the eyes of many young women – yet he chose to wed Imogen Ragnarsdóttir, a shieldmaiden from the East, daughter of the self-exclaimed Prince of Rhún – or so Boromir had heard several years ago. It was said to be a rather interesting tale, and he was looking forward to hear it one day.

This was the first time that he met Elfhelm's wife – and found her hard as steel; like iron against the silver that was the Lady Éowyn, with greyish-blue eyes and a skin that was as pale as any Elf's, due to a life spent mostly in the cave-dwellings of her people. Unlike the Riders of Rohan, she wore no mail shirt but a curved breast-plate of solid, polished bronze that had been made to match her shape, and her raven-dark hair was woven to a simple braid, thicker than Boromir's arm and wrapped around her proud head like an iron crown. A mighty sword with a beautifully-crafted hilt hung on her back, its scabbard adorned with Dwarven runes.

''Hail and well met once again, son of Gondor!'', Elfhelm said in the Common Tongue and offered the customary warrior's clasp on the forearms. ''Long has it been that we last could greet you in the halls of Stowburg; my father asks about you every time and again, for seldom do we have strangers at our table who would match our own people so nicely. How do you fare and what news in the South?''

''Many things, none of them good, I fear'', Boromir replied grimly. ''The Enemy's moving – the long-prepared war shall come upon us earlier than we thought, it seemes.''

''Things must be grave, indeed, when the Steward of Gondor felt the need to seek out the help of the Fair Folk'', said Elfhelm, ordering his troup to a formal escort behind them. ''What do you hope to find?''

''I know not'', Boromir admitted. '''Tis a riddle we cannot unravel without the help of the Wise – yet unravel it we must, for the fate of Gondor might depend on it. And should Gondor fall, how should the smaller lands stand against the onslaught of Mordor?''

The rode slowly towards the Ford, their hearts heavy with foreboding. The escort followed them, falling respectfully behind, so that they could speak undisturbed.

''I heard things are not faring well in Rohan, either'', Boromir said a little later, lowering his voice to keep their conversation private; the Riders of Rohan had very keen ears. ''Prince Théodred was careful to tell me about this, yet I suspect that the King's counsellor has much to do with the uneasy feelings I had to watch in the Golden Hall.''

''And your guess would certainly be a right one'', Elfhelm answered grimly. ''Ever since the King's health began to fail, Wormtongue's has been the only counsel he still listens to… as if he were bewitched.''

''When did _that_ occur?'', Boromir asked. ''And what kind of illness might it be? Last time I visited the Mark, your King seemed not the least ill.''

''Early in springtime, some four years ago'', said Elfhelm. ''When I was sent out to Rhún on errantry(3), Théoden King was in his best health; yet when I returned several moons later, he had already begun to fade.''

''Four years!'', Boromir cried; then he lowered his voice in hurry. ''But the King was only sixty-six back then! I always thought the Men of Rohan commonly live til near or beyond their eightieth year – and that in good health!''

''Commonly, we do'', Elfhelm agreed; ''and very few truly believe that the King's malady had been due to natural causes, though we cannot guess what really ails him. No-one can remember how his illness began.''

''Well, it may have been induced or increased by subtle poisons'', Boromir pondered. ''Even sorcerers of limited knowledge are able to brew poisons that need years to kill their victims. At times they need not even kill him. 'Tis enough to weaken him so far that he would die from natural illnesses… or from the weakness of old age.''

''I think not it would be a poison'', Elfhelm said; ''nor does Théodred. 'Tis not the King's body that is weakening, 'tis his spirit. Nor is he as weak yet as he thinks of himself.''

Boromir frowned. This sounded almost like some sort of conspiracy, devised to fall the high chair of Rohan's Kings.

''If not a poison what then?'' he asked. ''The Lady Éowyn has spoken of a spell; but to cast a spell of such power needs more than just a treacherous counsellor.''

''True'', Elfhelm nodded, ''but is there not a power great enough, sitting in its dark tower on our very doorstep, to make it work?''

Boromir caught his breath.

''So you believe that Wormtongue is in truth serving Curunír in the King's very halls?'', he asked. Elfhelm gave him a bleak look (the Rohirrim not being familiar with names in the Elven tongue), and he added: ''I mean Saruman the White.''

Following the somewhat rustic custms of Rhún, Imogen spat onto the ground and answered in her husband's stead.

''That miserable snake would serve any one who promised to make him a man – which is is _not_!''; her voice was softer than Boromir would have expected, but had a ringing of steel in it nevertheless, and in her eyes there shone cold wrath.

And Boromir understood at once that there was at least one person who knew about the counsellor's unwanted advances. He looked hesitatingly at Elfhelm as if asking whether he, too, knew of it, and the young Horse-lord gave him a short, sharp nod.

''We speak not of this'', Elfhelm added, ''for the Lady Steelsheen wants not her brother or the Prince to learn of it. For they are vigorous men, devoted to Théoden King – and at this moment the only ones standing between the throne of the Mark and Saruman's devices. Faithful to the King, they do all they could to thwart the influence that Wormtongue gained over him since his health began to fail. Yet though both Éomer and the Prince are high in the King's affections, the outcome of any confrontation they might have with Wormtongue is uncertain at best.''

''Of _that_ I have already heard'', Boromir nodded. ''You think then that the sickenss of your King is due to sorcery?''

''Sorcery… lies… evil suggestions delivered with cunning and skill by his most trusted counsellor… mayhap all of these together'', Elfhelm shrugged. ''It seems that Wormtongue is trying to bring both Éomer and the Prince into discredit with Théoden King, in order to get rid of them, if possible. He even tried to set them at odds with one another.''

''To what end?'', Boromir gave a derisive snort. ''Éomer is not one to yearn for power and his love and respect for Théodred is only second to his love of his King.''

''That I know as well as you do'', Elfhelm sighed. ''Yet Wormtongue is skilled in playing them one against the other in the mind of Théoden King, showing him Éomer as ever eager to increase his own authority and to act without consulting the King or his Heir.''

''Unfortunately, Éomer's actions gave his lies some guise of truth'', Boromir realized. ''He _did_ make moves against our common enemy, together with my own brother; and neither of them asked the leave of their Lords to do thusly(4).''

''Théodred knew of it'', said Elfhelm with a shrug; ''still, the King was highly… displeased.''

''Displeased?'', Boromir snorted again. ''Had you heard _my_ father raving about my brother's so-called foolishness, you would have learnt a whole new meaning of that word. The Steward of Gondor takes it not kidnly when his captains act without asking his leave first. Less so when said captain is his own son.''

''And yet 'tis said that the Lord Denethor is, at least, willing to listen to his Heir'', Elfhelm diplomatically replied. ''Which is, sadly, more than _we_ could say of our King.''

''He is'', Boromir agreed with a mirthless laugh; ''only to do afterwards as he pleases, nevertheless. And why should he listen to _me_? I am but a soldier; a good one, admittedly, but 'tis all I know. My father – he has the wisdom of Númenor, the experience of a seasoned ruler and a cunning mind… Faramir is more like him than I am. I only have inherited his volatile temper'', he added with a smirk.

They both laughed, ignoring Imogen's curious glance for the time being, but she did not mind, knowing that her husband would tell her everything she wanted to know later.

''How is your family faring?'', Boromir then asked. ''To my regret, I had no time for a visit in Stowburg to enjoy your father's famous hospitality.''

''We are doing well… as well as it can be ecpected in these times'', Elfhelm shrugged, but a shadow fell upon his handsome face. ''The chieftains of the great Houses avoid Edoras nowadays, and so does my father, though – unless many others – he has not fallen from grace due Wormtongue's lies yet. But the grief weighs heavily upon his heart, and now that he cannot pass over his duties as the _Maegtheow_ as he had been planning for years, the burden begins to be too heavy for him.''

''Wait!'', Boromir interrupted. ''What grief? And why cannot your eldest brother take over at least some of his duties as it is your custom?''

''For he is dead'', answered Elfhelm in surprise. ''I thought you have heard of it by now. Folcwine(5) has been slain by Orcs, less than a year ago, and Adhemar(6), my second-oldest brother fell in battle against a raiding party of Dunlendings, shortly thereafter. _I am_ the Heir of Stowburg and the next Clan-Master now – but I have not been prepared for these duties as my eldest brother had, so Father has to keep them a little longer, til I learn how to lead our Clan.''

These tidings struck Boromir like an arrow. He knew not well Elfhelm's elder brothers – to tell the truth, at time he had difficulties to keep them all apart –, yet he seemed to remember the two blonde-maned, good-natured, valiant men, with their roaring laughter and fierce songs, sung in the halls of Stowburg after a feast. And that Folcwine and Adhemar fell in battle without any one but the closest family noticing them perish, made him painfully clear how easily  could lose his only brother, too.

''I grieve with thee'', he murmured, but Elfhelm only shrugged again.

''You need not; for they died well and honourably, and there are many children left, born from their loins, who shall preserve their names in songs and in great deeds they, too, no doubt will perform. Even though we shall all sorely miss them in battle and in our halls during feasts'', he added sorrowfully.

Boromir shook his head. No matter how much he liked the Rohirrim, their all-too-easy acceptance of death – as long as it happened in battle and honourably – always made him uncomfortable.

But mayhap the merry and valiant Horse-lords were right. Unlike the old houses of Gondor, where childless Lords pondered over ancient scrolls in secret chambers, seeking out the lore of making elixirs, in order to preserve their useless lives, the Rohirrim filled their halls with children, songs and laughter. They feared not a honourable death, therefore they could not be easily corrupted, and since they lied not, it was not easy to deceive them, either.

Of course, there always were those who were different…

''What about Wormtongue?'', he asked. ''How  could King Théoden have chosen such an untrustworthy man as his most valued counsellor?''

If the sudden change of topic surprised Elfhelm, he showed it not. The Rohirrim preferred straight questions, and they were willing to give equally straight answers to them.

''Gríma was not always the worm he is now'', he answered slowly, trying to bring forth old memories. ''I still can remember him as a young man: he used to be a master of old lore, and even well-versed in foreign tongues and arts; and Gálmód, his father, had been the seneschal of Thengel King as well as Théoden's for a while. Him I knew not, but my father says that both Gálmód and his elder son, Frána(7) were great warriors as well as wise men. Gríma, on the other hand, had been weak and sickly as a child, so he was chosen to become a scholar. In fact, he used to be my tutor, and Théodred's as well… he taught many sons of great Houses. But then Frána fell in battle, shortly after Éomer's birth, and Gríma took over his place at the King's side. For a while he served the throne faithfully. No-one knows when his heart began to change… it happened so slowly that not even Théodred noticed aught, til it was already too late.''

''Éowyn did notice it'', Imogen said quietly, ''yet too long dared she not to say aught… and when she ceased to fear him, he already had the King under his spell. I wish I had met Théoden King in the days of his glory; he must have been a great leader of his people when they all love him so much. And even know, I do believe that he would protect Éowyn, could someone make him see Wormtongue's evil plans.''

''Éowyn is able to protect herself'', Elfhelm said. ''Not even our best warriors could defeat her in combat.''

''Still, even if she fears that worm not, she _is_ in danger'', Boromir murmured. ''Open combat is not the only way to defeat someone all alone in the Golden Hall.''

''She is not alone'', answered Imogen grimly. ''Why, think you, have I remained in Edoras, instead of returning to Stowburg to the family of my husband, as it would be the custom of my own people? And the Lady Aud, she of the deep eyes, knows it as well. We watch over Éowyn, and we shall keep our guard til that snake bites the grass(8). You can leave in peace, son of Mundburg. No ill can come near your Lady til you return for her.''

Boromir felt a little uncomfortable, asking himself what else the secret network of women had carried all throughout Edoras, and wo else might know of his… understanding with the Lady Éowyn.

''She is not _my_ Lady!'', he protested.

''According to the customs of the Mark, she _is_'', Elfhelm replied with a broad grin. ''She made her intentions rather… visible, and you did not refuse. So, unless _she_ changes her mind, there is no honourable way for you to back off.''

'''Tis not my wish to back off'', said Boromir, somewhat irritated. ''I onyl said that our… agreement alone makes her not mine. Not truly.''

''That may come later'', Elfhelm smiled at his wife, who gave him a very un-ladylike grin in exchange. ''It was not undying love at the first sight between that two of us, either. In fact…''

''I was his weregild'', Imogen added casually, and Boromir nearly fell from the saddle.

''You were _what_?''

'''Tis a long story'', Elfhelm laughed, ''one that we might tell you one day. Yet now we must take our leave from you; for the ford lies before us, and I was told that you are in a haste.''

He checked his great steed and offered Boromir the traditional warrior's clasp on the forearms once again, accompanied by the traditional Rohirric blessing.

''May thy family and thy horses remain in good health.''(9)

''And yours, til the last sunset'', Boromir replied, giving the correct answer. He had been Théodred's friend long enough to know the peculiar customs of the Horse-lords well – as well as any stranger was allowed to know.

Elfhelm and his men escorted him safely over the ford. Then they turned their horses and rode back to Edoras.

Having crossed the ford, Boromir returned to the ancient North-East Road again; the one that once had connected Gondor with Arnor, from Osghiliath up to Fornost Erain. His way led through the Westforld to Rohan's Gap now – and beyond that to foreign lands that he only had known from old legends before.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

The story of Éowyn will be continued, later. I fact, she will have her very own series, titled ''The Legacy of Gondor's Heir'', dealing with the consequences of their understanding. Two parts of it: ''Frozen Flower'' and ''Ice Blossom'' are already available on ff.net and on my own webpage.

As for this story, it might grow in unexpected length, after all; for every new chapter brings new details to consider and new ideas to follow. As it seems, I _will_ describe the whole journey of Boromir to Rivendell, after all, even though I've sworn not to do that. Shows who is here in control, right?

**Here a few footnotes for the happy nitpickers among us:**

(1) Clan-Master, who led the clan with the help of the Clan Council called the Maegwitan. The Maegwitan was made up of the Maegrads (Clan Counsellors), who were some of the most influencial people in the clan. Usually about half of them were the craftmasters (such as the Masters of the weavers, traders, horse-breeders and so on) within the clan, a quarter or less were nobles or men (women) of wealth and influence and the last quarter or so were in general respected elders of the clan.

The main duties of the Maegrads were to assist the Maegtheow in solving the various problems which might concern the clan, its members and its lands; marriages between members of different clans, civil disputes of all natures and the negative effects of both weather (harsh winters, droughts) and outside forces (such as Orc raids).

It was also the duty of the Maegwitan to arrange the election of a new Maegtheow when one is needed, and to win a candidate must have been supported by a majority of the clan's people as well as the majority of the Maegrads. The Maegwitan always met four times a year; spring, summer, autumn and winter, as well as when there was need for a meeting. (Data taken from the Rohan RPG-site named in the Author's notes.)

(2) Chief stallion master. A rank also created for the RPG, so you won't find it anywhere by Tolkien.

(3) This particular quest would be the aforementioned Elfhelm-story. It's already written – save the very first chapter – but not yet translated into English.

(4) A detail, taken not from Tolkien but from Dwimordene's story ''From the Other River Bank'', which was the inspiration to my Boromir story arc.

(5) Folcwine had been named after the 14th King of Rohan.

(6) Adhemar is a rhúnish name, coming from Imoleth's family.

(7) A name originally given to Wormtongue, according to ''The Treason of Isengard''. Gríma's family background is completely my creation. I was interested in him as a person and tried to figure out what made him the worm he had become.

(8) Rohirric expression, meaning ''bites the dust''. Comes from Hungarian, actually. We, too, used to be a nation of horse-breeders and riders.

(9) Modified from an old greeting of the pagan Hungarians: ''How fare your family and your horses?'' Some Rohirric phrases are directly taken from the old, nomadic Hungarian ones.


	6. Chapter 5: On a Lonely Road

**The White Lady of Rohan**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the families of Elfhelm and Erkenbrand are mine.

Rating: PG-13 for battle-induced violence.

**Author's notes:**

This chapter shows the solitary journey of Boromir from Edoras to the ruined city of Tharbad and was mostly inspired by Michael Martinez' articles about the Dúnedain kingdoms in Middle-earth. A ''history chapter'', if you like, with very little action, save the end of it – which is my take on how Boromir had lost his horse –, and almost no dialogue at all. Basically, it's simply following Boromir's thoughts about the history and the fate of Gondor, while he sees the proud monuments of Gondor's powers at its height (like the Hornburg, Orthanc, etc.).

Many thanks on this place to Rociriel, Mother of all Horsemen (go and read her story), who provided me with the necessary information in equine matters – and with the excellent source below. Roc, this one is for you!

More about the customs of Rohan can be found at: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture.html, if anyone is interested.

Also, my heartfelt thanks to Danielle for beta-reading.

**CHAPTER FIVE:  ON A LONELY ROAD**

It took him almost two days to travel from Edoras to the Hornburg. _Narothal_(1) could have made it in one, of course, if the need were dire; he _was_ a horse of Rohan, even if not one of the magnificent _meara_s, who bore only the King of the Mark and those of his line. The great steed belonged to the so-called heavy type, which lacked the speed of the lighter horses used by scouts, but possessed greater strength instead, and so were the favoured choice for heavy cavalry units, especially those of the West-mark(2).

The line that Narothal descended from was carefully bred by the Lord Hengest, Elfhelm's father, and Narothal himself had been hand-picked for Boromir personally as a young foal and trained exclusively for his service, as was the custom of the Horse-lords of the Mark. Then, a few years ago, when Narothal's training was complete, Boromir had been called to Stowburg for the proper bonding ceremony(3), and from that moment on the horse was his and his alone.

No ordinary horse of the Mark could have lived in a city of stone like Minas Tirith. Lord Hengest, however, recognized the need of Rohan's strongest ally for mounted forces, and bred these strong and swift, yet cold-blooded war-horses especially for Gondorian purposes. It made the Gondorrim happy and him a wealthy man, so both parties were satisfied.

Boromir had learnt to consider Narothal as a friend rather than a mere horse. The great, silver-coated steed carried him as easily as if he were a mere child instead of a tall, big-boned man clad in travelling armour, and had Boromir asked him to make the distance between Edoras and the Hornburg in one day, Narothal would have done so. But Boromir saw no reason to over-extend his horse… his cherished friend. Even if the exact destination of his quest was uncertain, he knew hundreds of leagues still lay before them. So he took it easy. Despite the urgency in his heart, the more sober part of his brain knew that a few days' delay were of no significance.

It was near dusk on the second day after he had left Edoras, and the tall peaks of Thrihyrne were already dim against the darkening sky, when he reached Helm's Deep: a green coomb in the mountains on the far side of the Westfold Vale, out of which a gorge opened in the hills, winding inward to the north under the shadow of the Thrihyrne, ever steeper and narrower, til the crow-haunted cliffs rose like mighty towers on either side, shutting out the light.

At Helm's Gate, before the mouth of the Deep, there was a heel of rock thrust outward by the northern cliff. There upon its spur stood high walls of ancient stone, and within them was a lofty tower. (4) Boromir checked his horse and looked up with awe and longing at the handiwork of his forefathers of old; for this fastness had been built at the time of the Sea-Kings, when the power and glory of Gondor was at its height and its influence extended over Dunland and the Enedwaith, as far as the rivers Gwathló and Glanduin.

At the proof of Gondor's long-forgotten glory he was looking indeed, at a glimpse of the greatness of fallen Westernesse, and the sight filled his heart with sorrow, for he knew that despite the desperate efforts of his father, Gondor had not the strength to rise to such heights again. Worse than that: unless a wonder were to happen, or some forgotten power walk out of ancient legends, Gondor was doomed to fall.

And if Gondor fell, how could lesser, weaker peoples hope to survive?

At the Gate he was welcomed by the sentinels, for Boromir's name was well-known even in the West-mark, and he was escorted up to the Hornburg where Erkenbrand, master of the Westfold on the borders of the Mark, now dwelt. To his pleasure, he found Erkenbrand at home, and they spoke deep into the night, exchanging tidings from the South and the North.

Having Númenórean blood in his family (like the royal House) made Erkenbrand tall, dark-haired and fair-faced, as his daughter, Aud of the deep eyes, was. His other children, Hereward and Déorwyn, took after their mother, though Hereward, too, had dark hair. The whole family, including Erkenbrand's sisters and their husbands and children, joined them for plenty of food and good ale, and they had heated discussions about matters in the court of Edoras, the fall of Osgiliath, and the generally worsening situation along the borders of Mordor.

Among other things – in spite of his partially Gondorian descent – Erkenbrand felt the need to warn Boromir about the Elves. There had been _incidents_, he said, Men of Rohan being haunted by wraiths in the woods, wraiths that had once been Elves and refused to go – well, wherever Elves go after having been killed. Some of these _dwimmerlaiks_ even tried to take over the bodies of living people(5), the Lady Medwyn (Erkenbrand's wife) added, and it was widespread opinion in the Mark that they came out of Dwimordene, the Golden Wood, where the greatest Elven sorceress was said still to dwell.

Not being superstitious himself, Boromir only shook his head in mild disbelief and let them carry on, hoping to have at least a few hours of rest ere sunrise. Unfortunately, the family of Erkenbrand was in a very talkative mood, not to mention delighted to have him as their guest, and after the discussion came singing and drinking, so that when he got up the next morn, he was, in truth, wearier than he had been the previous evening.

At least Narothal seemed to have had a restful night and was eager to go on again. Boromir said his farewells to Erkenbrand's family and left the Hornburg to return to the North-South Road.

It took two more days to reach the Gap of Rohan, some eighty miles from the Hornburg. Narothal galloped easily among the green hills of his homeland, and the Road was well-kept here, so they had little hindrance in their headway. Rarely had they met anyone, seeing only the occasional patrol from afar, and another day and a half later they reached the Road's closest point to Orthanc.

There Boromir stopped for an hour or so, in order to think over his plans. If he continued on the Road, it was about a hundred and fifty miles to Tharbad, once the westernmost haven of Gondor, where the Road crossed the River Gwathló. That now-ruined city once had been the farthest haven to which the great sea-ships of Númenor could sail upriver; an ancient fortress and meeting point between the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor – as long as the North-kingdom had existed.

It was said that great floods had destroyed that once-important haven, and no-one had dwelt among its ruins since the last inhabitants fled over the Enedwaith to Gondor. Still, it was the last known place in the North-west, and there was a reasonable chance that he might find there some lingering people from the fallen North-kingdom who could tell him the way to Imladris. The people of Arnor had always been on more friendly terms with the Elves than the Gondorrim had, and Tharbad, even in ruins, was too important a place to be abandoned completely.

On the other hand, it made him uneasy not to know what might be stirring behind his back  in Isengard. Yet turning towards Curunír's fortress to take a look would mean fifty miles in the wrong direction – at least three days' delay, there and back. Not to mention the trouble he could get into if the wizard detected his presence.

Though he had never visited Orthanc itself, Boromir had several times come as far as Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Valley, looking over its depths towards the great ringwall of stone standing out from the shelter of the mountain-side from which it ran and then returned to, wrought by the mighty work of the Men of Westernesse, at a time when Gondor was strong and victorious.

He remembered the great watchtower of Orthanc, that seemed to have grown from the very bones of the Earth in the ancient torment of the hills; four mighty piers of many sided stone welded into one, black and gleaming hard, opening near the summit into gaping horns, their pinnacles sharp as arrow-points, keen-edged as knives.

A strong place and wonderful was Isengard, indeed, and long it had been beautiful – while great Lords, wardens of Gondor upon the West, had dwelt within its walls. But now it was lost to Gondor, and instead of guarding the borders, had become a threat that Théoden son of Thengel, King of the Mark, was unable – or unwilling – to see, for his trusted counsellor had made him deaf and blind to the peril.

Boromir hesitated, weighing all arguments for and against a brief (and hopefully undetected) visit to Isengard, but finally suspicion and the urgency of his errand defeated his curiosity. He got back in the saddle and continued on the Road northwards.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A hundred and fifty miles. Four days, riding with moderate speed from sunrise to sunset on the gradually hardening terrain, surrounded by loneliness, pausing only at the occasional inn. Having left Dunland safely behind, Boromir began to slip into a more thoughtful mood, for there was no need to remain on high alert any more. And his journey surely gave him enough food for thought.

Never had he been this far from his own land – and yet, in the time of the greatest Sea-Kings, the power of Gondor had extended over these now mostly uninhabited lands. Having seen the great works of his forefathers – not only the magnificent towers of the Hornburg and Orthanc, but also the abandoned ruins of smaller fortresses and watchposts that now served mainly as inns and resting places for tired travellers – made it painfully obvious how deeply Gondor had fallen from its erstwhile glory.

These old fortresses had stood here ere the fall of Númenor. Pelargir, the royal haven of the South was not the only Númenórean stronghold. In truth, not even the first one. That would have been Vinyamar, called Lond Daer Ened in later times, built by the great Sea-King of old Númenórë, Aldarion himself. And Tharbad, abandoned since the Great Flood more than a hundred years ago, was a third one.

Boromir thought back to the early years of his childhood when Faramir had been little more than a baby; the soft, lilting voice of his mother, Finduilas of Dol Amroth, telling him of the war between the Elves and Sauron, when the Númenóreans had built small garrisons along the River Gwathló to watch over the waterways; when the relief fleet of Westernesse had sailed up the Gwathló to Tharbad to help the Elves of Lindon, and the two forces kept the Dark Lord from crossing the river. Now he could see with his own eyes what had become of these forts, and the sight was not promising.

It was said in Gondor that after the arrival of Elendil and the last fugitives from Númenor Tharbad became the chief port of the North; for whatever reason, Lond Daer Ened seemed to have been abandoned. In truth, very little of Arnor's history was known in Gondor now; a fact that Boromir now regretted, for it made his quest the more difficult, though he had paid little enough attention to the affairs of the Norh-kingdom during the lessons of his youth.

His father always spoke of Arnor with dismay, calling it a land of decadence that had ended in the squabbles of three princes who could not live in peace together. How enraged the Lord Steward had been when Faramir dared to point out that Tarannon Falastur, first of the glorious Sea-Kings of Gondor – the one who had conquered the coastal regions as far as the Gwathló, pacifying Enedwaith in the process – might not have been entirely innocent in the sundering of the North-kingdom. After all, the two younger princes _had_ served under Tarannon in Gondor's fleet, and took part in his campaign to conquer Enedwaith(6).

Denethor took the comment of his younger son not kindly; yet it remained a fact, that although Tharbad was _Armor_'s chief port, it was _Gondor_ that maintained a garrison of soldiers there during the reign of Tarannon Falastur, and that the strife he may have supported among the sons of Eärendur brought forth the end of the High Kingship and the final rift between the Dúnedain realms. Arnor broke apart and two-thirds of its earlier lands were lost to Elendil's heirs, the once great realm shrinking to the small kingdom of Arthedain.

At that time, Boromir shared his father's opinion about Arnor, but the unusual amount of time he had to think about the fate of his people now began to make him uncertain. Gondor remained united, that much was true. But had not the realm of Anárion also been shaken by the Kinstrife and other horrible, often needless wars that bled it to near-destruction? Were the fates of the two kingdoms _truly_ that different, or had Gondor simply had better luck?

Boromir shook his head defiantly, as if trying to keep these treacherous thoughts away. Whatever mistakes the Kings of Gondor might have made in the far past, they had paid the price for it. And after they had perished, the Ruling Stewards, his own sires of old, had taken the fate of the South-kingdom into their strong and reliable hands; and they had ruled well. While the wide lands of Arnor became little more than a wilderness, without rules and without a ruler, Gondor remained a stalwart tower, holding the re-awakened Enemy at bay, suffering heavy losses and protecting those who could not protect themselves.

_One day_, Boromir thought,_ I shall be the one to hold the sceptre of the Stewards and to lead Gondor's armies against the Darkness. If we can hold on any longer. If the riddle that sent me out on this errand is not, in truth, foretelling the doom of all of us._

Yet to learn the meaning of those veiled words, he still had a long way to go. So he lightly squeezed Narothal's sides with his thighs and rode on swiftly towards the north.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fifty more miles. More or less. Boromir had lost count of how many days he had spent in the saddle riding at a steady pace towards Tharbad, once the greatest haven of Eriador. He could not be sure of the length of the North-South Road that was already behind them, either. The passing days had become one blurred, grey vision with short breaks at nighttime, for he preferred not to travel in the deepest dark. Still, he guessed that there were probably one or two more more days til Tharbad. According to the old maps in his father's library, the town lay at the crossing of the river and the Road, so there was no way he could miss its remains.

Darkness was falling once again, and Boromir considered leaving the Road and looking for a proper resting place soon, though his weary bones and painfully knotted muscles screamed at the thought of lying on the cold, hard forest floor once again, with gnarled tree-roots poking into his back. But there was no way he could change the land around him; so he dismounted, suppressing a groan as he hit the ground, and soon he detected a narrow path, hardly visible under the fallen leaves, that led away from the Road.

Less than forty feet away, he found a cleaning among the huge, wide-branched oaks which flung gnarled arms, intertwined like a protective canopy, high over his head. Every single bone in his stiff body ached from utter weariness, and Narothal was in only slightly better shape. Boromir took care of the faithful beast, then lay down, wrapped in his cloak, and stared up at the swiftly darkening sky: too tired to make a fire, too tired to eat (which might have been considered fortunate, for his supplies were already running low), too tired even to sleep.

So he lay there in silence, listening to the night noises of the woods – not that there was much to listen to, for the forest was strangely quiet – trying to think of the stars that would be shining above the white city of Ecthelion, far, far away from here, in the South.

Yet all he could remember was fire and darkness. An angry red wheel of fire that had haunted his dreams ever since the last battle for the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, where – for the first time in his short, harsh life – he had been utterly beaten by an enemy so much stronger and evil beyond imagination.

And the dark wings of the Nameless Fear that swept up to the skies above the battlefield, clouding the hearts of his best men with mindless, black horror. The cold, terrible touch of the same horror upon his own heart, pierced by the long, otherworldly shriek of the Winged Beast ere it struck down at them like the iron scythe of Death.

He shuddered, the cold fear that sat bone-deep in his whole body – and even more so in his heart – tightening its icy grip once again. 'Twas not something he was used to. He had seen Death too often to be still afraid of it. He could not _allow_ himself to be frozen by fear. He was a warrior, the High Warden of the White Tower, leader of the brave soldiers of Gondor. He had to be strong – for his land and for his men. And for his own father who tolerated no weakness. Not of body, nor of heart.

Strong… he _hated_ being strong. He hated being the one all others depended on, leaned on. Once, just once he wanted desperately to let everything that was expected of him go, to lean back into comforting arms and let himself fall into thoughtless bliss.

But not even that comfort would be granted him. Even his bed, cold and empty as it had been before, would become a place of service and duty. He was the Heir of Gondor. He was expected to wed and have heirs of his own. He understood this, and apparently so did Éowyn of Rohan. They would fulfill their duty toward their peoples. Whether it made either of them happy, no-one would ask.

The restless bouncing of Narothal jerked him out of his dark thoughts. The horse pinned back his ears, his nostrils flared, his breath came in angry snorts. Boromir knew these signals all too well. They were not signs of fear, but of readiness. Narothal was preparing for a fight.

The harsh voices and guttural laughter he heard coming from the Road just a little later left no doubt what sort of company he was about to meet. No-one could spend his whole life in the Watchtower of Númenor without knowing the rough voices of Orcs, among other fell creatures of the Enemy. It surprised Boromir, however, and filled his heart with great unease that the foul beasts had found their way around Gondor, this deep into the Western Lands. Might it be that the riddle in his and Faramir's dream heralded the ultimate fall of Elves and Men in their long fight against the Darkness?

Well, not tonight, not here, and certainly not as long as he still could wield a sword!

He swung into the saddle with renewed eagerness and nudged Narothal towards the Road carefully. The great war-horse eased down the narrow path, but at the last few feet Boromir checked him to keep them in the relative safety of the wood. He wished he had a bow, even though he could never match Faramir's skill with that weapon; alas, he had not thought that one might be needed and was armed with a sword and a shield only.

The Orcs approached swiftly. Based on the many voices, he had had the bad luck to run into a whole scouting party. Peering out through the tree-branches, he saw at least a dozen. Most of them – like the two who came a good length before the others – were small, long-armed and crook-legged; very ordinary Orcs from either Mordor or the northern mountains. Their noses nearly touched the ground as they sniffed for any possible danger – or for some prey. Boromir did not doubt that they would smell him and Narothal any moment now. Orc-scouts had better noses than hunting wolves.

Yet 'twas not the scouts that made him worry. There also marched different goblin-soldiers in the middle of the group, mayhap four or five of them. They were of greater stature – bigger than grown Men, in fact – swart, slant-eyed, with thick legs and large, clawed hands. They were armed with short broad-bladed swords, not the curved scimitars Boromir was used to seeing Orcs wield, but at least they had no bows, either – that would have decided the outcome of the fight very early on, indeed. Upon their shields they bore not the Great Eye of Mordor but a small white hand in the midst of a black field, and on the front of their iron helms was set an S-rune wrought of some white metal.

There was no need for much consideration of what _that_ might mean. After the dire tidings he had heard in Rohan, Boromir had little doubt whom these huge Orc-men served, although the identity of their overlord was the smallest of his concerns at the moment. He could not hope that the band would miss him – there was simply no way to fool an orc-scout's nose. So, his only chance was to take them by surprise – to attack them ere they became aware of his presence, and slay as many of them as he might.

Being mounted was an advantage against the ordinary, smaller Orcs, even though Narothal had not the usual protective armour he would have on a battlefield. They were on a long journey, after all. But he was a well-trained war-horse, capable of protecting his own belly with vicious kicking or biting if he had to, without throwing his rider from the saddle.

Those big, black monsters, on the other hand…

But Boromir had truly no other choice. He drew his sword, and with a sharp battle cry of ''Gondor!'' made Narothal leap into the midst of the fell creatures, trying to slay the big goblin-soldiers first.

The moment of surprise served him well, at first. The Orcs had not counted on being attacked on the Road, and did not realize right away that their attacker was one lone Man. Carried on by the momentum of his own ferocious attack, Boromir had slain three of the big Orcs, while Narothal, with a burning hatred only a mount born and trained in Rohan was capable of when facing the enemy, trampled down several of the smaller ones.

Unfortunately, the moon chose that very moment to peek out from behind the clouds, and its dim light was enough for one of the big Orcs to get a better grip on the whole mess.

''Búshdug!'' he roared to his fellow goblin, using some mutilated form of Westron as was customary among Orcs of different tribes. ''He alone! C'm'ere from behind! Skratrak, ya little rat, go for horse!(7)''

The small, sleek Orc-scout scowled. '''Tis no horse, 'tis dragon. Me not risking me skull.''

''Yer skull be cloven in two if you not do what I say!'' spat the big Orc in fury. ''I am Kushúr the Cleaver. I leading ya, now that filthy _tarkil_'s(8) killed Glazklâsh!''

''The Ripper got ripped,'' another of the smaller Orcs began to giggle insanely. ''Not the great warrior he fancied 'imself!''

This appeared to make Kushúr completely mad. With a loud snarl, he leapt at the smaller Orc and cleaved its skull neatly in two, giving Boromir a golden opportunity to get rid of two more enraged beasts of the same sort. But then some well-placed commands in the Black Speech snapped the rest of the swearing and scowling ragtag band out of their rage, making them understand at last that before all else, they had to kill their lone attacker.

And so they closed up from all sides at the same time. Narothal reared up on his hindquarters, spinning around like a whirlwind and breaking Orc-skulls with his flailing hooves, neighing fiercely at each hit. For a moment Boromir needed all his considerable battle-skills just to remain in the saddle and protect himself with his shield, slashing blindly around with his sword, in hope that at least some of his blows would hit something.

Then something hit Narothal in the side with brutal force. The horse staggered, his forefeet landing on the ground with a bone-jarring thud, so hard that Boromir was flung out of the saddle. And then Narothal bolted, kicking and neighing in pain, running away with all the speed he could still muster, into the darkness of the Road.

Boromir did not try to call him back. If Narothal fled in the midst of an ongoing fight, that could only mean that he had received a grave injury; one painful enough for his survival instinct to win over his training. Whether the wound was bad enough to kill the horse, Boromir could only guess. Either way, he was on his own now.

Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, backing towards the nearest tree in the – most likely vain – hope of finding at least some protection for his back. He slew two more of the smaller Orcs, yet ere he could reach the trees, he found himself trapped between the last two big, black monsters.

A hideous grin gave him a perfect, albeit unwanted, view of a ragged row of broken, yellow fangs. Then rotten Orc-breath hit his face, at the very same moment as something blunt and heavy hit his head with shattering force.

And then darkness came.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Means Firefoot. Originally the earliest name for Shadowfax, according to ''The Return of the Shadow''. (BTW, at one point of the story development the horse was even called _Aragorn_! Think about it…)

(2) See: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture/types.html

(3) See: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture/ceremonies.html

(4) The Two Towers, p. 163

(5) A theory of Michael Martinez – actually an attempt to explain the mistrust of the Rohirrim against Elves. We don't need to buy it, of course. After all, we are dealing with Rohirric superstitions here.g

(6) A possibility, not a fact. See: ''Razing Arnor: How real were the Dúnedain conspiracies?'', by Michael Martinez.

(7) All Orc-names were created with the help of the hilarious name-generating online-engine at:

http://www.barrowdowns.com/midleearthname.asp I simply typed in the names of different people I know and the engine came up with the most incredible Orkish (or Elven or Dwarvish or Hobbitish) names. To unveil two rather unusual Mary-Sues to you: both Kushúr the Cleaver and Skratrak the Sleek are actually me (different forms of my name). But no, they are neither perfect, nor beautiful. Plus, they are male Orcs. So, they might not be Mary Sues at all. g

(8) Earlier expression for ''Dúnadan''. Boromir was one – a southern one, but a Dúnadan nevertheless. And Orcs knew their enemies very well.


	7. Chapter 6: Finding the Way

**THE WHITE LADY OF ROHAN**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Dúnedain in Tharbad are mine – except for their Captain, of course.

Rating: G, I think.

**Author's notes:**

I can barely believe it, but 'tis true: this particular tale has now come to an end. So my long Boromir series has no missing parts any more, up to the Gates of Moria, and I can finally  go on with the main storyline – as soon as my muse allows it.

This particular chapter closes the gap between Boromir's short break in Rohan and his arrival in Rivendell. If you wish to know just _who_ the Ranger in charge of Tharbad is, you will have to read Chapter 5: The Counsel of Elves from the third part of this series (''Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love'').  Yes, I am mean and manipulative. What is new? g

Saelind (= Wise-heart) was the other name of Andreth, a Wise-woman of Bëor's people, who had long theological discussions with Finrod Felagund in the First Age and was in love with Finrod's brother. I assumed that she would have been greatly respected and admired among the Adúnaic peoples, even Ages later, so I gave her name to my original character.

As always, heartfelt thanks to Danielle for beta-reading.

CHAPTER 6: FINDING THE WAY

Darkness enveloped him like a wave of black water, and yet it was filled with fire and burning pain. He could not see and could not move; his whole world was restricted to a few far-away, unclear sounds and strange smells. The shadows that haunted his deep, dreamless slumber had no true shapes; just the already well-known, indefinite horror – and their distant, piercing wails went through his heart like thin, sharp daggers of ice. There was no escape from them, for he could not run, nor hide… he could not move at all.

Then another sound broke through the horror-filled cloud that kept him captive; the voice of a woman, singing an old song in the Ancient Tongue that he knew not (at least not well enough to speak or even effortlessly understand it), but he _did_ recognize the song. It was a lament about the Fall of Númenor, and thus part of the old lore of Gondor.

Ilu Ilúvatar en káre eldain a fírimoin   
ar antaróta mannar Valion: númessier.  
Toi aina, mána, meldielto - enga morion:  
talantie. Melko Mardello lende: márie.  
En kárielto eldain Isil, hildin Úr-anar.   
Toi írimar. Ilyain antalto annar lestanen  
Ilúvatáren. Ilu vanya, fanya, eari,  
i-mar, ar ilqa ímen. Írima ye Númenor.  
Nan úye sére indo-ninya símen, ullume;  
ten sí ye tyelma, yéva tyel ar i narqelion,  
íre ilqa yéva nótina, hostainiéva, yallume:  
ananta úva táre fárea, ufárea!  
Man táre antáva nin Ilúvatar, Ilúvatar  
enyáre tar i tyel, íre Anarinya qeluva?(1)

Boromir was not overly interested in ancient lore (unlike his brother who, if he had a chance, would have completely devoted himself to it), but he _did_ have a strong interest in anything considering Númenor's fate – for had not the greatness and glory of the Gondor of old come from the even greater majesty and glory of Númenórë? So yes, he _had_ studied the history of his forefathers and every little thing connected to it.

And then he had been taught this song, too. He had even sung it often himself (having a pleasant singing voice), Faramir accompanying him on the harp, when they were much, much younger.

Thus he knew that this was called Fíriel's song, for it had been sung by the Princess Fíriel, the daughter of King Ondoher of Gondor, who was wed to Arvedui, King of Arnor in the year 1940, in the last, feeble attempt to reunite the two estranged kingdoms(2). But who else would still know this ancient song, and what was more, sing it not even in Westron but in the Ancient Tongue?

With a great effort, he opened his eyes, and as his vision slowly cleared, he found himself in a low-roofed, dimly fire-lit room of what seemed to be a very old but still solid stone house. He was lying in a well-made, but unadorned, narrow bed, wrapped in warm blankets, feeling disgustingly weak. In a corner, next to the fireplace, a lone figure sat, half-hidden in shadow.

Boromir blinked a few times in order to clear his vision further, and saw that it was a woman, clad in a shadowy grey gown. She seemed well beyond her youth, mayhap of his own age or even older, of average height and rather sturdy, as far as one could judge from her seated position. Boromir caught a glimpse of a pale face with noble features, framed by dark hair bound back by a silvery tie in order to keep it out of her face. She wore the long, loose apron of a healer over her gown, making the reason for her presence obvious.

Boromir tried to turn his head and winced from the sharp pain that shot through his skull like a poisoned arrow from this simple movement. The woman saw him moving at once and rose from her seat to approach the bed, her grey-blue eyes taking on that annoyingly scrutinizing look he knew so well from the Houses of Healing.

'''Tis good to see you awaken, Man of Gondor,'' she said. Her voice was deep and pleasant, and to Boromir's surprise she spoke not Westron but the tongue of Gondor, though with a strange accent(3).

''Where…?'' he asked hoarsely, but the woman understood him nevertheless, most likely expecting the question already.

''You are in Tharbad… at least what the flood left of it,'' she answered. ''Our men found you two days ago on the Road, left for dead, among a company of dead Orcs. A scouting party is out hunting down the rest of them right now.''

''Who… are you?'' Boromir asked with some effort. The woman gave him a serene smile – one that lacked any real mirth.

''I am the chief healer of this settlement. My name is Saelind, and I belong to the remnants of the people of Arnor. My husband commands the small troop of Rangers of the North that watch over Tharbad and the Road.''

''How many… still here?'' Boromir continued his inquiries in the suddenly reawakening hope that he might have found some clue where to go after all. The woman shrugged, her tired eyes suddenly becoming sad.

''Not nearly enough. When the flood destroyed the city more than a hundred years ago(4), only a handful of the houses remained more or less intact. We have done some restoring since then, for sure, but 'tis still a small watchpost, naught else. No families here. Just a few Rangers and we healers.'' She paused and looked down at him. ''How are you feeling? You took a nasty blow on your head. Any sickness?''

''Nay,'' Boromir shook his head and groaned immediately. ''It just hurts like hell when I move it.''

''You should move slowly and carefully,'' Saelind advised. ''No matter how thick your skull seems to be, that blow would have killed a lesser Man at once. Do you feel strong enough to sit up and eat a bit? I cannot offer much, as we live mostly on _cram_ and fish and the odd rabbit, but you need to eat in order to regain your strength.''

''I can try,'' Boromir sighed, for indeed, he felt a ravenous hunger all of a sudden. Sitting up proved more complicated than he thought, but Saelind helped him with the practiced ease of a long-time healer. She was much stronger than she seemed, and obviously used to ill-tempered male patients, for she simply ignored his groans and protests.

When he was finally sitting across the bed, with his back against the pillow that she had put between him and the cold stone wall, Saelind left for a moment, only to return with a steaming bowl of rabbit stew.

''You are lucky,'' she said with the same, serene smile. ''Someone came from the North yestereve and brought some vegetables. Otherwise you would be eating hot fish soup right now.''

''There are worse fates than that,'' answered Boromir, rather fond of fish himself; though more in roasted form. Saelind shuddered.

''But not many,'' she countered with a wry face. ''I have been eating fish soup nine out of ten days for the last year or so… and I never liked it in the first place. I hope I shall never see fish – or _cram_, for that matter – for the rest of my life, once we go home.''

''Where is _home_?'' Boromir asked, but she just smiled again and said regretfully:

''Far from here and impossible to reach for some time yet. Now, can you eat on your own or should I feed you?''

''I am not _that_ weak!'' Boromir protested, and in answer to that Saelind pushed the bowl into his hands.

''Glad to hear that. Call if you need me, then. I shall be in the adjoining room, making a poultice for your head wound. 'Tis time to change your bandages.''

With that she left, and Boromir began to eat with great care, remembering that otherwise he would lose the good food again, just as quickly as he had devoured it. Half a life spent on various battlefields had made him experienced with all sorts of injuries, including head wounds. And since these people had obviously offered him the best of their scarce food, he wanted not to waste it. So he ate slowly, with short pauses between bites – and enjoyed having something hot again greatly. Even so, the bowl was empty when Saelind returned.

''Good lad,'' she praised him in a motherly manner, and this time her smile was genuine. ''Now, let me re-dress your wound; then you and my husband can discuss important matters in a manly fashion, if you feel up to it.''

''I would like that,'' Boromir said. ''And I _do_ feel much better – no dizziness any more. Mayhap I was hungry, too, not just wounded and weak.''

''After two days lying unconscious, you certainly were all of that,'' she laughed quietly. ''Let me see that wound now.''

It took only a short time for her to re-dress the wound, with very little pain; then she brought warm water and washed her patient with the professional detachment of all healers. Boromir accepted her help stoically. No soldier in their right mind would reject a healer who tried to make them more comfortable, regardless of the gender of said healer.

''Here you go,'' she finally said, scrutinizing him with the satisfied look of a mother who had just managed to scrub two day's grime off of her five-year-old. ''I shall send in my husband now, if you are not too tired.''

''I am not,'' said Boromir. ''Please, do so.''

She nodded curtly and left. After a few moments the door opened again, and in came a grim-faced, tall man – taller even than Boromir himself – clad in shadowy grey and forest green. He leaned his great bow and full quiver against the wall in the corner next to the door. His dark hair, touched by grey already, was bound in a tight ponytail on the nape of his neck, and his even greyer short beard made his narrow face seem longer than it already was. High cheekbones, a long, straight nose and clear, grey eyes revealed him as one of Númenorean origin, even through hundreds of generations in Middle-earth. Just as the noble families in Gondor, it seemed that some people in what had once been Arnor kept and protected their heritage during these lesser days, too.

''Welcome to Tharbad, Man of Gondor,'' the newcomer said in a slightly rough voice; then he coughed and his voice became clearer. ''Forgive me. I have been out in the woods for almost a moon, and it seems I am no longer used to sleeping on the cold forest floor every night.''

''You are not the only one,'' Boromir answered drily. ''I am getting too old for that kind of lodging, too.''

The Ranger, for his clothes and weapons, especially the long throwing knives on his belt, revealed him as one, grinned.

''Wait 'til you reach my age…,'' then he turned serious again. ''So, can you tell me what you are doing here, so far from home? 'Tis rare for any of our southern kindred to travel all the way from Gondor to here. To tell the truth, we have not seen one of you for at least twenty summers. Which means: you must have an important errand.''

''I do,'' Boromir nodded, choosing his words carefully and wishing Faramir were here; his brother had always been a better judge of hearts, while he could judge people's abilities better. ''I was sent by the Lord Denethor himself, the Steward of Gondor, in order to find a valley called Imladris.''

He felt no need to say that the Steward was his father; nor to give his own name, and his host asked not. If his words were surprising to the older man, he could not tell; there were no signs of it on the long face. The Ranger remained silent for a moment, stroking his greying beard in a thoughtful manner.

''I see,'' he finally said. ''And why, pray you, might you need to find Imladris?'' It was obvious from his words that he knew that name well.

''My Lord wants the counsel of Elrond Half-Elven on a matter of some importance,'' Boromir answered truthfully, but keeping the better half of the truth to himself. ''He hopes that the Elves may still possess some old lore that has been forgotten in the South.''

The Ranger gave him a long, thoughtful look that reminded Boromir of his own brother when in a brooding mood. It seemed that Rangers, whether from the North or the South, had a lot in common. And this particular Ranger was clearly someone used to giving orders and being obeyed. A Ranger Captain mayhap, just like Faramir. Yet if so, whom might he receive his own orders from?

''You have undertaken a long and hard journey, Man of Gondor,'' the Ranger finally said. ''I wonder not that the whereabouts of Imladris have been forgotten in the South-kingdom – there has never been much contact between the two realms. And though I have never been to Minas Tirith in my life, I have visited Rohan a few times, so I know the empty lands and the perils that lie between Tharbad and the land of the Horse-lords. Your quest must be one of great urgency, indeed, if you were ready to set off without knowing where you were going.''

''It is,'' answered Boromir simply. The Ranger nodded.

''Then 'tis not for me to ask the nature of your errand. Yet I might be of some assistance in your quest.''

''You would help me?'' Boromir asked in surprise. ''But you know me not, and cannot tell if I have been honest with you…''

''Oh, but I can,'' a slight smile lit up that stern face for a moment. ''I am a rather good judge of Men's hearts, if I may say it myself… and so is my wife. Besides, you have talked quite a lot in your fevered dreams. I know you are not a mere soldier of Gondor, but I shall not ask for more, for I do believe that you have been honest with me – as honest as the safety of your quest would allow. I respect that. I have not told you aught that you would not guess on your own, either. Nor has my wife. These are dark times, and we all have to be cautious.''

''So you are willing to guide me to Imladris?'' Boromir asked, his near-lost hope renewed that he might find that mythical place after all. But the Ranger only shook his head.

''I cannot leave my post ere relief arrives, for 'tis my duty to keep this far-away outpost safe. And I doubt that you have the time – or the willingness – to wait another moon or two here. I feel a great urgency in you, and a dark shadow that threatens to engulf your heart, and I do believe that you need to reach Imladris as soon as you can, for that is a place where darkness cannot find you. I can tell you the way that leads there, though.''

''Then do so, I beg of you,'' Boromir said. ''For no matter whom I asked before, no-one was able – or willing – to help me.''

''There are but few who still know the way,'' the Ranger answered, ''or the true name of the valley. 'Tis called Rivendell in the Common Tongue; had you known that, it might have helped. Or not. Few mortals have walked the woods of that dale since the fall of the North-kingdom.''

''But _you_ are one of those, I deem,'' said Boromir. The Ranger nodded.

''Many times. My people are allied to the Elves of Rivendell. We might even meet there again, should you remain there longer than you plan.''

''_If_ I can find it,'' Boromir added drily, and the Ranger smiled again.

''By the grace of the Lady Elbereth, and if you follow my lead, you might. Rivendell lies north-east of here, at the feet of the Misty Mountains. The roads that may take you there are perilous, but at least you should not be bothered by Orcs on the way. Though one cannot be sure of that in these days,'' he added thoughtfully, and Boromir had to agree.

''I wish I had not lost my horse,'' he said mournfully.

''And I wish I could lend you one, yet I cannot,'' the Ranger replied. ''We have but a few pack animals here which we cannot give away, for they are needed to carry our belognings back home, soon. And our mounts, few as they are, would never carry anyone but their own riders. But since the shortest way will lead you through the woods in most parts, you would not be slowed down considerably by travelling on foot.''

''Through the woods? Why should I leave the Road?'' Boromir wondered.

''It will not take you where you want to go,'' the Ranger said. ''The way I would suggest is to leave the Road entirely and follow the River Bruinen, that is called the Loudwater in the Common Tongue, to the ford south-east of the Trollshaws. Be wary of those downs; there may be evil things lurking there. In the end, the Loudwater shall lead you to the very place you seek. 'Twill be a long and tiresome journey. But you strike me as one who can withstand hardship.''

''I am,'' Boromir sighed, ''or at least so I hope. You have my heartfelt gratitude, Ranger of the North, not for your advice only but for your hospitality as well. When, do you think, might I go my way again?''

''Saelind is the one you should ask about _that_,'' the Ranger said with his customary, grim smile, ''but my guess is she will allow you to leave in about two days' time.''

This relieved Boromir greatly, for he wanted not to tarry on his way unnecessarily, even though he was sober enough to accept the fact that he needed some time to recover. The Ranger gave him another grim smile and rose from his seat.

''Saelind told me that you might get up for a short time if you wished. I am going to the porch for a smoke. You are welcome to join me if you like.''

''For a… smoke?'' Boromir repeated, not understanding what the other Man was talking about. The Ranger laughed quietly and pulled a short wooden pipe from under his rough grey tunic. Then he showed Boromir a small pouch, filled with some peculiar plant leaves, cut into small pieces.

''The pipeweed of the hobbits'', he explained. Boromir sniffed it warily, giving his host a blank look – the words meant naught to him, never having heard of _hobbits_(5), whatever they might be, but the scent seemed oddly familiar…

''_Galenas_?''(6) he asked, uncertainly. The Ranger grinned.

''The dried leaves of it. The smoke of them is rather pleasant to inhale – though our women seem to dislike it, for some reason. Saelind will not have me smoke in the house, so I have to go out every time.''

''Well, I will go with you, I guess,'' said Boromir, still somewhat unsure; to tell the truth, he could not see the appeal of burning dried _galenas_ leaves in order to inhale their smoke. ''I have not seen much of Tharbad yet, though 'tis a great name in the tales of my people.''

''There is not much to see nowadays, I fear,'' the Ranger helped Boromir onto his feet and supported him on his way to the door, ''other than ruins. The flood did not leave much behind.''

''And yet you are still here.'' Boromir ducked, in order to get through the low entrance, and blinked while stepping out on the porch. Even the setting Sun seemed much too bright for his hurting eyes.

''Aye, we are,'' the Ranger agreed, helping him to find a more or less comfortable position on the hard wooden bench. ''You say you know the tales of this city; you know then of its importance, too. Once it was a garrison. Now 'tis but a small outpost. But it is still the best place to keep an eye on both the Road and the River; and even though there are no more great ships coming up from the Sea, and few travellers on the Road, 'tis still the farthest watchpost that we keep. Just as in the days when the North-kingdom was still strong and proud.''

''Once this was the place where our realms met,'' said  Boromir thoughtfully, ''but why do you still guard a ruined city, even if it once was of great importance to both our lands? Surely, you cannot hope that the North-kingdom will rise from the ashes again? Do you truly believe that one day the remnants of your people might return to their greatness?'' It seemed to him that he was not speaking of the Northern Dúnedain at all, but of his own people, of the waning strength of Gondor that might not keep the Enemy from the rest of Middle-earth much longer.

''I do not know what may or may not happen,'' the Ranger replied, lighting his pipe and blowing a grey-blue ring of smoke away from them, so that it would not bother Boromir's already tearing eyes. ''I know only a few lines of the Rhymes of Lore; our elders used to repeat them when I was young, saying that they should come true one day. Alas, they never told me when that day would be.''

''Riddles are all we seem to have nowadays,'' Boromir said, thinking of his own riddle that had sent him on this long and perilous journey. ''Would you be willing to share yours with me? I would like to see if 'tis known in the South as well.''

''Why, certainly,'' the Ranger shrugged. '''Tis no secret, after all; though I doubt 'twould mean much to you. It surely never said a thing to me.'' He thought for a moment, murmuring brief snatches of rhyme both in Adúnaic and Westron first, as if refreshing his memory, then he passed into a song of some sort:

Tall ships and tall kings  
Three times three,  
What brought they from the foundered land  
Over the flowing Sea?  
Seven stars and seven stones  
And one white tree.(7)

''That is all,'' he added with another shrug. ''I know not why I keep thinking of it all the time; 'tis not even a prophecy of some sort. Does it sound familiar to you?''

''Nay,'' Boromir shook his head. ''I mean, 'tis quite easy to guess which white tree it speaks of, but as for the rest… nay, I have never heard it. But again, I am not a scholarly Man. Were my brother here in my stead, he might know your rhyme. I have always been too busy with fighting the Darkness to care overmuch about lore.''

''I am a warrior myself,'' the Ranger said, ''but I was taught that wisdom is just as mighty a weapon against the Darkness as a sword.''

''That may be,'' Boromir sighed, ''yet weapons of war are all I have any knowledge of, and I fear their cries shall be heard loudly all over Middle-earth, soon, silencing the soft-spoken words of wisdom.''

And yet, when he took his leave of the Ranger Captain and his wife two days later (he never saw any of the other people who dwelt in the ruined city), now there were two different riddles echoing in his mind for the rest of his journey, and at times he knew not which one he should listen to.

* And here this tale now truly endeth. *

Continued in ''Forgotten Song''.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) This is a long (almost 90 words) Quenya song found in LR:72 (also some fragments in LR:63). It was written about 1940. Tolkien provided no official title, but in the narrative for which he wrote the song, it is sung by a woman called Fíriel. Hence it is universally referred to as Fíriel's Song. The language of this song is what I would call "near-mature" Quenya, or late "Qenya". It is not quite the same kind of Quenya as the language we know from LoTR and later sources, but Tolkien was getting there. He had already come a long road since "Qenya" in its most primitive form first manifested in the Qenya Lexicon a quarter of a century earlier, in 1915. Found, together with the comments, on the Ardalambion website.

Translation (not from me, obviously):

The Father made the World for Elves and Mortals  
and he gave it into the hands of the Lords. They are in the West.  
They are holy, blessed, and beloved: save the dark one.   
He is fallen. Melko [Melkor] has gone from Earth: it is good.  
For Elves they made the Moon, but for Men the red Sun;   
which are beautiful. To all they gave in measure the gifts   
of Ilúvatar. The World is fair, the sky, the seas,  
the earth, and all that is in them. Lovely is Númenor.  
But my hearth resteth not here for ever,  
for here is ending, and there will be an end and the Fading,  
when all is counted, and all numbered at last,   
but yet it will not be enough, not enough.  
What will the Father, O Father, give me  
in that day beyond the end when my Sun faileth? 

(2) There is actually no proof that the song was sung by that particular Fíriel, since Tolkien often re-used names of earlier characters. I just wanted to make another conection to Gondor's history, since this whole story can be seen as Boromir's trip to the past of his people.

(3) Remember, in Book 3 of LOTR Pippin realizes that the people of Minas Tirith speak a different tongue among themselves. I supposed that would be the mother tongue of the Northern Dúnedain as well, but with a different accent, due to the long separation of the two kindred.

(4) 106, actually. The Great Flood was in the year 2912 of the Third Age.

(5) In Gondor they still were called ''halflings''. The name ''hobbit'' was only known in the northern countries.

(6) Unless I am messing up something royally, ''sweet galenas'' was a healing plant, known in Gondor. But never had anyone put the leaves into a pipe in order to smoke them, until the hobbits came up with the idea.

(7) This is, of course, the same rhyme Gandalf quotes to Pippin when on their way to Minas Tirith in ''The Two Towers''.


End file.
